Korea by Night
by Mockster
Summary: It all started when a Nosferatu stepped on a landmine. We all knew that War was Hell, but now we're sure that it's a World of Darkness. Epilogue added. Ties up all the loose ends needed to get ready for the, um, sequel. *duck* I can't help it!
1. Part first: Joly gets Drafted, Henry get...

It is standard army practice to bring with it wherever it goes a modicum of disciplined structure. Wherever goes disciplined structure, so too goes hierarchy. Wherever goes hierarchy, so goes bureaucracy. Wherever bureaucracy lies, there lies red tape. And wherever you have red tape, of course, you have vampires. So, when the world converged its beady little Cold War weathered eyes upon the little war-rife country of Korea, you can make a safe bet that the Camerilla was no more than two steps behind, along with all the headaches and politicking attached thereto. Temporary power over the hastily constructed princehood of Seoul and the outlying areas was swiftly allocated, and the games began.  
  
A clever little bit of influence shuffling was executed by a Nosferatu orderly who happened to owe his life to a small brotherhood of Brujah who pieced him back together to heal after he stepped on a landmine. You see, these particular Brujah had come to Korea to put their two cents in against the pink spread, and when they decided that it was time to swell their ranks, they called in the favor.  
  
The Brujah supplied the rocket launcher, the ammo, the manpower, and the blood. The Nosferatu supplied a cleverly executed lie to the U.S. Army that the airplane of Lt. Col. Henry Blake had been shot down and had sunk to the bottom of the sea of Japan.  
  
~  
  
Henry, roused to consciousness, couldn't quite muster the force to open his eyelids. He felt wholly restful, incredibly peaceful, like one snuggled safe in bed after a hard day's work. A real bed, too, no army cot which held no rest for even the weariest of souls, and a real day's work, a few appointments, errands for the wife, some time in the lab, picking the kids up from preschool, no 30-hour stretches of nonstop surgery, amputations, and death. The frantic nightmare of the plane being struck, the plane plummeting - all these were far in the past, he could only remember them as an afterthought. As an afterthought, he smiled at the dream, at the embodiment of every man's fear that he'd not return to his loved ones alive. As he smiled, he knew, growing more aware, that he was not in bed, but sitting up. 'Still on the plane,' he reminded himself, 'must have landed already,' he added, hearing no noise of motors running or blades spinning. 'Maybe I'll just sit here and wait for one of the stewardesses to come wake me up,' he pondered, his posture much too comfortable to move from, his eyelids too heavy with sleep to lift. The thought of a pretty young stewardess tapping him on the shoulder with a high-pitched, "Sir.? Sir?" did much for his morale. But no such voice ever came.  
  
Finally, with a heaving sigh, he lifted himself from the chair, opening his eyes and leaning down to grab his bag from under his seat. It wasn't there. Nor, in fact, was he on the airplane. As he stared down at his feet in the motion of grabbing the nonexistent bag, he saw that his feet were bare. A few feet away lay a pair of rolled up socks and a pair of tennis shoes. No trace of the sleek black beauties he'd bought to go home in. His pants, likewise, were one of his normal pairs, and his dress jacket was missing.  
  
"Great jeezy peezy," he finally commented on the entire situation as a whole, as the semi-tattered state of his previously brand-new white shirt sunk in for him. Especially telling, the missing patch of hem cloth along the right-hand side of the shirt's bottom, which he had torn in a desperate attempt to staunch the wound of the stewardess who'd gotten - wounded--- in the ---------- explosion.  
  
Henry stood stock still as the 'dream' came vividly rushing back upon him, and he leaned back to steady himself on the back of the chair on which he'd been sitting, not entirely surprised, or at least not registering any further shock, to find his vest draped there, and his (old) hat perched on one of the edges. Sitting down again, he slowly replaced these articles of clothing, pulling the fishing cap down firmly over his scalp.  
  
Just as he was about to find the wherewithal to wonder how he could have possibly survived such a catastrophe apparently unscathed, a voice captured his attention.  
  
"'Great Jeezy Peezy?'" questioned the questioner, a slim, short man with fetching brown curliques of hair and an incredulous snarl across his face. "Can't you do any better than that, soldier?" he sneered, as two more individuals moved into the doorway after him. Their vague semblance of army clothing made Henry feel more ill-at-ease rather than comforted. These people obviously didn't belong to the United States Army. Emphasizing the positive, they sure as hell didn't look Korean.  
  
Leaning against the chair in an awkward attempt to appear at ease, Henry bobbed his head from side to side and, with a customary quirk of the brow, spoke, "Well, I didn't exactly expect to survive that plane crash, you see. I was just a little put off - ehh.. Henry Blake, by the way."  
  
As Henry spoke, his usual timidity sloughed off a bit, his eyes sparkled with his innate charm, and to the unwary would appear to be the smoothest operator in all Korea, leaving the childish wit of Hawkeye Pierce by far in the dust. The Brujah, on the other hand, were what one might just call wary, and they looked amongst themselves at their new initiate's attempt to charm them. This was not at all what they were expecting. After all, if it flew in an army airplane, had army identification, and had army papers, it ought to have been a sparkling specimen of a brave U.S. soldier that they had just recruited. oughtn't it? He ought to have flown into a temper at having found himself re-dressed and so modified, and tried (unsuccessfully enough) to knock the block of his sire and the collective blocks of his comrades right off. oughtn't he? Something had gone terribly wrong.  
  
The short gentleman with the brown locks suddenly disappeared, and Henry was jarred up into the air. It took a while for his thought processes to register the fact that the fellow was now under him, holding him up as easily as a stack of newly filled out supply requisition forms. Before the sight of the pointy wooden stick in the man's other hand could thoroughly sink in, the world went black. Again.  
  
~  
  
Joles Traveneau, Seneschal of Seoul, a tidy little fellow with an aquiline nose and an air of joviality tempered by one of impatience, was getting fed up, in several different definitions of the term. A warm bath, as per usual, had been drawn and was ready to slowly bring his body temperature up after his day's sleep had allowed it to cool so dramatically.  
  
"Testing. . . don't you understand? TESTING." He repeated emphatically as he drew a few syringefuls of blood from the crook of his elbow, his use of the needle skillful with decades of practice. But it was no use. The lovely Korean concubines he'd allocated to this evening's bath and meal, still giddy and giggling from the kiss, didn't seem to give a flying hoo- hah about having the wool pulled over their eyes about their new companion. Attempting a graceful leap from the water to the floor, Joles was knocked slightly off-balance by one of his toes catching on the rim of the tub, but was able to land on his feet nonetheless. And all without spilling a drop. Perfect. Wrapping the syringes up in a washcloth, he sheathed his steaming, well-fed body in no less than 8 towels to insulate it from the cold as he opened the door and headed across the street -- if one could call it that -- to the main office of the Evac Hospital.  
  
His clerk, a highly useful fellow despite the appearance of disorder that was embodied in the catastrophe that was the office, had his feet up on the desk, was nursing a soda pop, and was paging through an issue of National Geographic.  
  
To an outside observer it would seem that the young man didn't notice, or perhaps just didn't care, that Joles took up the soda from the desk, and took it over to a small, grungy wall-mirror, unwrapping the syringes and beginning to slowly add the drawn blood to the brown fuzzy liquid. The seneschal looked in the mirror, squinting a bit at himself, and called over to the boy, "How's the evening going, Sparky?"  
  
"Oh, just fine, sir. Radar's right, if you skip all the scientific stuff, this mag's pretty good." He randily eyed the half-naked tribal women displayed in its pages until the modified soda was returned to his hand, along with a curt but cheerful, "Drink up."  
  
"Mm-hmm," Sparky agreed. Somehow or other, after the second or third time, this blood thing gets a lot less weird. A few moments' worth of silence later, the clerk felt on odd prickle on the back of his neck, a feeling like there was something he ought to be doing. Looking up to Colonel Traveneau, he noted his bright baby blue eyes fixed seriously on the opposite side of the room.  
  
"Oh-" was all Sparky could get out.  
  
"Sparky." Joles interrupted. "What is that?"  
  
Feet came flying down from the table, the magazine was shut in a matter of instants after Sparky got over the shock of forgetting about the staked vampire in the corner. "Um, the Brujah left him for you, sir. It's-" he checked the topmost papers on the mountain of them on his desk, "Lieutenant Colonel Blake." The name, of course, was familiar to him, but it was only after it passed between his lips that he recognized where it was he knew it from. His eyes widened, but he said nothing, not having been asked.  
  
Joles, for his part, took no note of the sloppy ghoul's epiphany. Approaching the body with a pert little frown, he held out his hands to either side. "Gloves," he muttered, and Sparky duly shot out of his chair and gloved his regnant. "Never know where these Brujah have been," he explained, a picture of perfect seriousness as he stepped forward and gently tore off the note that the Brujah had stapled to the end of the stake.  
  
His eyes scanned the paper. The prince wasn't going to be happy.  
  
~  
  
In just about any other circumstance, of course, a vampire in the position of Joles "Joly" Traveneau would never be in the particular position in which he was currently situated. Once you've wrapped your head around /that/ one, I'll explain. Joles was not what you'd call an ambitious member of the Camarilla. He was quiet, retiring, unassuming, and delighted in pleasures other than those of wielding power over the lives of millions of kindred and kine. Still, a vampire doesn't reach his advanced age and power in Camarilla society without either being elevated in position or murdered as a threat. In this manner Joles floated to the top of the vampire barrel, as it were. He might have been prince of his own city decades ago, perhaps even half or three-fourths of a century. But Joles preferred the company of his bride, Irene, to fancy get-togethers and elbow- rubbing sessions, which wearied him somewhat, and wearied his coatsleeves to an even greater extent. As a student in Paris he'd picked up the adage from his good friend Bossuet, "Coat-elbows are precious, and easily worn. Make sure to waste them away only on someone you love."  
  
So, when the princedom of Seoul was being organized, one of his proponents pulled some strings and had him sent off to act as seneschal, with the hope of inspiring him to hunt for his own princedom once the war was over. Joly had had the dourest impression that he'd just been drafted.  
  
It was the greatest blessing of his existence that Irene had been able to accompany him to Korea. Still, deep in thought as he was, he was somewhat surprised to find her lithe white arms wrap up around his chest and give him a gentle hug. "Oh," her quiet voice came from behind him, "That fellow looks like some kind of great puppy. What happened to him?"  
  
Joles smiled. There WAS something about this colonel that lent an irremediably cute element to his dogged - or, as Irene would prefer, doggish - features. He folded up the note, and the pair looked down upon the torpored Brujah childe, Irene's head tucked snugly up under Joles' armpit.  
  
"Hilson seems to have leapt before he looked; you might think that filling out those CTAF-3s in triplicate and having had the AOP form go across the desks of the entire court, he would have taken more time to make sure he gets the right guy. But I suppose that's Hilson for you," he added, and Irene chuckled agreement. "I hope he realizes that that form only gets across the Primogen council with the frequency that the Earth's polarity changes. I HOPE he doesn't have any ideas about going after another childe, after this fiasco."  
  
Meanwhile Irene had fished the note from Joles' hand, and touched a finger to her nose in concern. Not a week old, never been presented to the Prince, and already slapped with the Brujah clan status "spineless." "What's going to happen to him?" she whimpered lightly, already having a feeling she knew the answer.  
  
Joles looked into her eyes, confirming her fear for Henry's safety. This is a war zone, nobody wants to be stuck with an abandoned Brujah they'd have to show the ropes to.  
  
"I'll see what I can do," he murmured, and kissed her lightly on her pretty, smooth forehead, parting her short black bangs with his lips.  
  
"Sparky!" he called, releasing his wife and heading for the door. "Get the prince on the horn, will you? Patch it through to the house. And get the files on this Blake fellow over to me ASAP. I'm going to get dressed."  
  
"Yes sir-" Joles barely heard the voice as he went to cross back over the dimly lit alley that passed for a street in Korea at night.  
  
~  
  
Joles had, of course, been correct in the prince's displeasure with the troupe of Brujah in question. But he had spoken well on the young vampire's behalf, bringing up various anecdotal material that had found its way into Blake's file, and furthermore commenting that the status 'spineless' given by a man such as Hilson could be taken any number of ways - most of them, despite the technically negative value of the given status, quite positive, when taken in context. The context being, of course, that Henry would present very little obstacle, and could even be a helpful puppet in one theater or another. Joles had spoken such things so delightfully that even the prince had to laugh over the assured incompetence of the new kindred. Once the prince showed such a high level of good humor, Joles spoke in a tone that retained its levity while simultaneously becoming a solemn vow.  
  
"Yes, sir. See? Quite harmless. I'll even take full responsibility for him myself. You won't have to hear hide nor hair of him, and if, for one reason or another, he gets into mischief, I'll clean it up myself, and, with your permission, of course, be disposed of him."  
  
He had turned his chair to face the wall. Through the studded leather seat, through the towel still wrapped around his neck and shoulders, a chilled breeze of air blew across his cooling earlobe, causing him to turn around. As expected, Irene stood in the doorway. Joly froze, his mouth open to reply to some tangential question the Prince had asked. He knew that face. That was the "I'm so sorry" face. That was the face she'd had on right before she told him that she'd set all his lab's rats. . . no. He didn't dare finish that thought.  
  
He didn't have to. He dropped the phone onto his lap as she guiltily held up the dripping stake between her two fingers.  
  
The swooshing of the cold-blowing breeze his wife seemed to continuously waft grew into a torrent on his ears as he unconsciously lifted the range of his hearing to clearly listen to the voice of the prince buzzing from the phone on his lap.  
  
"Joles? Traveneau? Are you still there?"  
  
"I'll get back to you on that, sir."  
  
~ 


	2. Chapter 6: Hurry Home, Henry

Henry was halfway there by the time he realized where he was going. Home. Not, of course, to Bloomington, but the next best thing within walking distance, i.e., the 4077th, drew him like a magnet.  
  
As I stated before, he was halfway there before he became somewhat aware of exactly where he was headed. At three-quarters of the journey, he finally stopped. He wasn't tired. It was more the fact that he wasn't tired that stopped him. The trip to and from the Evac hospital, where he, in retrospect, remembered being, was a jump by chopper, but a bit of a haul by bus or jeep. Nonetheless, he had seemed to traverse the distance in a remarkably short period of- - "Damn!" he mumbled ferociously, having lifted his wrist to examine the time, "Those guys must have stolen my watch, too!"  
  
He sidled to the side of the road, and had perched himself on a fallen tree, sadly and silently rubbing at his naked wrist. A furrow crossed his brow, his mouth puckered downward in a puzzled grimace as he re-established his grip on the pulse point and pressed down in the usual manner.  
  
He got up and kept walking, his eyes slightly widened as he concentrated on moving one leg tirelessly in front of the other, trying, with little avail, to stunt the realization that was encroaching upon him that he might not have, in fact, survived that plane crash.  
  
As he concentrated on moving ahead, he watched the ground; the fact that the surrounding trees and rocks began to blur past was not first on his list to think on. He thought of getting home: "That is to say, /back./" he reminded himself, having tried to break his habit of thinking of the unit as his home in the past few. . . well, however long it's been since he got that confounded letter. Oddly enough, his thoughts trailed not back to his office and his liquor cabinet (though he yearned for a little something to loosen up his nerves), not to the Officer's Club or the Swamp or the Mess Tent or even to the friends who'd seemed to him to be more like family. As he walked, he thought of the O.R., and of having his hands wrist-deep into some kid's gut, scrounging for scraps of metal and drinking up all the blood---- err. Sucking the blood from the nurse. Err. Calling for suction from the nurse. Right; that's it.  
  
The images of O.R. ran across his mind before he could stop them, and, shaken, he slowed to a halt on the center of the road, feeling, again, not tired, but something else. Drained. Thirsty. Hungry.  
  
"Aha! Hunger, that's it." He told himself. He brought up to mind the last time that he ate. It was back at camp, before he'd left on this wild goose chase for a way home. The thought of army food sickened him now, as it seemed to Henry, as it had never done before. "It's very simple. Those wackos, whoever they were, rescued me from the plane, stole my watch, shipped me off to Ouijongbu, where I'm currently suffering mass hallucinations as a result of lack of nutrition."  
  
Henry smiled to himself, proud of having found a simple solution to all of this. He halted once more in his tracks, pausing as he smelled something wonderful cooking. He was, oddly enough, getting somewhat near camp, and had reached the vicinity of a small batch of huts off the roadside to the left. It was most definitely from this direction that he smelled it. No quease-inducing army fare, no sirree, but a real meal, something reminiscent of Illinois kitchens and late Sunday suppers with just him and Lorraine, before the kids were born. The actual contents of the meal he wasn't able to identify. But he couldn't stop his footsteps from leading him off into the field in the direction of the small village cluster.  
  
~ 


	3. Chapter 7: A Sleepless Night

"Radar, I really gotta go. My Colonel's shoving some work in my lap."  
  
"I gotcha, Sparky, just see what you can do about those blankets, huh? Winter'll be here before too long, and we really need 'em."  
  
"Yeah, I know. I'll get moving on that when I get a second. Bye!"  
  
Radar hung up the phone and took a second to take off his glasses and rub at his eyes. He was really, really zonked. He didn't know how Sparky managed to keep up that pace. While he was beginning to piece together Sparky's schedule of the past few weeks from the conversations they'd had, and was just about to begin to wonder just /when/ the Evac's clerk EVER sleeps, he was interrupted.  
  
The Korean woman came bursting through the office doors with a stream of explanation coming out of her mouth, resembling more a mournful wail than any lucid speech, and a small boy of 7 or 8 in her arms with a rather bloodied knee.  
  
Radar, knowing that most of the camp was still awake at this hour (about 1 AM), felt no qualms about using the PA system, jumping to the speaker and calling for the chief surgeon. "Hawkeye, please report to pre-op," he called, his voice trembling a little with sadness for the poor mother and wounded child, and, moreover, with a funny sense that something was terribly not right about this situation."  
  
He led the woman to post-op at a quick pace, and Hawkeye, arriving at about the same time in his bathrobe and with signs of an affectionate nurse's makeup smudged over his mouth, seeing the poor child, laid aside whatever quip he'd had at the ready and zeroed in on Radar as they headed inside. "What happened?" He rubbed his mouth on the sleeve of his robe and smeared the lipstick over his cheek.  
  
Radar explained as Hawkweye took the child and laid him out, examining the wound. "She says he went out of the hut to go to the latrine, and when he didn't come back very soon, she went after him, and found him on the ground not too far from the woods. Said that he was crying and talking about the doctor who was going to help him, then he fainted."  
  
"Hm. Those ads we put in the paper must be working, people are starting to ask for us by name," Hawk murmured. "It looks like there are two sets of wounds here," he spoke louder, starting to sanitize the bloody knee. "Both fresh. . . one a kind of scrape, looks like your everyday playground trauma. Then-- an animal bite? I guess. Radar, go tell the nurse on duty to get me a rabies shot set up, in case."  
  
"Should he be unconscious, though, Hawk?" Radar asked, worriedly, trying to comfort the wailing mother.  
  
"I'm not quite sure what's happening with that. Could be pain. Doesn't look like shock. And it definitely doesn't seem like he could have lost enough blood to be like this." He shook his head. "Get a unit of blood set up for him, anyway." To the mother he smiled, "He should be fine, don't worry, mama." Which Radar duly translated.  
  
During this interaction, the child stirred a mite, and his eyelids slowly opened to the sight of Hawkeye over him, preparing to stitch up the wound. The child's eyes focused on the red streak that crossed from Hawkeye's mouth across his face, and he shrieked lowly, a single word that Radar, puzzled, translated as, "Another one!"  
  
~ 


	4. Chapter 8: A Conscience Check

Henry knelt between two trees, the outlines of some of the outlying tents of his old unit visible from a distance away. But his mind's eye could only focus on the look of panic on the face of the child from the village, and he retched hard, trying to bring up some of the fluid he'd taken from the boy's body. He was only mildly successful.  
  
He had, of course, found nothing stirring, much less cooking, among the cluster of huts at that particular hour. As he tried to consider what it was that had brought him there, his eyes settled on the young boy who, on the way to the little scrap-wood lean-to that passed for a bathroom, had tripped and skinned his knee on a jagged rock. Good lord! Henry thought mournfully, for he'd approached the child, explaining in simple and quiet terms that he was a doctor, that everything would be fine, that he didn't have to cry. But as he leaned down to comfort the child, before he knew it, he'd driven a pair of fangs he hadn't previously known he'd had into the skin near the wound and begun to drink.  
  
When the mother had emerged from the door, he'd disappeared in a blur into the trees, listening to her begin to cry over her unconscious son, pick him up and bear him away. When he touched his hand to his mouth, and indeed found blood there, he began to try to cough up the ill-gotten goods. What satisfaction he'd found in the sustenance from the child was cancelled out by the sheer horror of the experience, and some of the blood eventually came back up. It didn't help. Between that and the now familiar draining feeling that seemed to accompany the odd habit he seemed to have developed of moving exceptionally quickly. Steadying himself against a tree as he stood up, he trembled with fear as the pieces of the puzzle fit themselves together into a picture that was quickly becoming undeniable.  
  
Henry was a vampire.  
  
Even as the words finally ran through his mind, he knew they had to be true. Oddly enough, it explained so many of the other things about which Henry had been wholly confused that as a result he found this simple statement a lot easier to swallow. Erm. As it were.  
  
He watched himself, as he walked toward the camp, to make sure that he was moving at a relatively normal speed. He had no desire to exacerbate the situation.  
  
~ 


	5. Chapter 9: Same Camp, Different Faces

Henry lingered on the edge of the camp. As the noises of late-night clamor reached him from the Officer's Club, he paused, and looked in that direction. The door opened, and a gust of warm, alcohol-scented air rushed out into the slightly chilled night.  
  
The scent made Henry wince slightly. He desperately needed a drink. "A real drink," he quickly added, gazing so longingly at the structure that he hardly noticed the tall, sandy-brown haired fellow who had just exited, all bleary-eyed.  
  
"Hey, there," said gentleman jovially greeted him, affably approaching. "Don't worry about going in, we're not strict about the so-called 'officers only' policy." He clapped the startled Henry on the shoulder, "I'm B.J., by the way. You new? I haven't been here too long, myself, but we get mighty close mighty quick around here."  
  
"Um," commented Henry wittily. "Uh, no, I used to-" the warm hand on his shoulder throbbed with life, and he shut his mouth for a second so as to focus on forcing back the growth of those dag-blasted fangs. He chuckled, "I used to work here, but, you see, I was on my way home, and I got. . . lost, so I came back here until I can get another ride out."  
  
B.J. frowned. "Lost? Well, I'm glad you're back, you're freezing! How long have you been wandering around out there?"  
  
Henry lifted his hand and casually brushed off the touch of the surgeon. "Oh, not too long, don't worry, I'm just fine. I think. I'll just go back to. Um. My tent."  
  
B.J. shook his head, "I probably ought to look you over first, just in case. You look like hell." He added, quite frankly, as he squinted at the pallor on the older man's face.  
  
"No! Really, I'm fine," Henry cried, first loud, then quieting his tone as he spotted Radar leading the Korean woman and boy across the compound. His eyes widened and he turned back to B.J. "Really." He stated again, his face breaking into a cheery and assuring smile. B.J. seemed duly assured, and with a nod of the head, headed toward the swamp.  
  
Henry watched out carefully and hurried (not /hurried/, but hurried nonetheless) across to his tent, looking over his shoulder to see if anyone else was stirring as he entered. Sighing in relief, he removed his hat and dropped it onto his bed. Except, of course, for the fact that it landed at his feet. He turned around to face into the tent, which currently had begun to resemble the setting from a cheesy western novel.  
  
"Oh." He murmured to himself, leaning over to pick up his hat as he scanned across the room, finding, among the equestrian trappings, an older face snuggled down stoically into the army-issue blankets. Henry felt inutterably. . . replaced.  
  
The semi-nostalgic feeling, however, that stirred within him suddenly began to be quashed under a new sensation, a kind of irrational fury that whipped up into his brain. "How could they replace me? I haven't been gone from this place two-three--- err. . . only a few days, and already they've gone and got this new guy right at home, huh? Huh?!"  
  
Henry himself, in a kind of introspective way, was shocked to find these thoughts coming from his own psyche. "Was that me?" he murmured aloud. He was quiet, thoroughly aware as to the presence of the sleeping Colonel, but needing to hear the sound of his own voice to help calm himself. Once done, he could think rationally. Of course, almost as soon as he left he would have had to be replaced. He even made himself smile somewhat, thinking that Hawk and Trap couldn't have stood Frank being in charge for any period of time longer than 15 seconds.  
  
As he was in thought, he crept forward, half-inspecting this new face in the darkness. Then the announcement came on. "Choppers! Sorry guys, looks like sleep will have to wait."  
  
Henry grunted slightly and dropped to the floor, shuffling under the cot before the old man could stir his eyelids open. A moment later there was a mumbling, and a pair of feet slid onto the floor. A light was turned on, a nightgown dropped on the bed, its light blue edge trailing the floor.  
  
"What the devil?" Potter mumbled, leaning down to pick up the hat from where Henry'd dropped it in his dash under the cot. Feeling no need to change into fatigues just to go change into scrubs, he walked out the door in his shorts and olive drab undershirt.  
  
Henry sighed again, and rested his head on his hand, his elbow on the floor in an attitude of exasperation.  
  
~ 


	6. Chapter 10: At The Drop of a Hat

It was a natural part of the scrub room scenery, perched inconspicuously on the shelf above the CO's hook, as it should be. Hawkeye, the first to be relieved, stumbled blearily in the direction of his robe. The white linen top of the surgical outfit was swiftly hefted over his head, but, instead of sweeping down in the customary gesture of discarding it into the laundry bin, his arms sat upright over his head, in the manner of one being accosted by bandits. Then they bent at the elbows, his hands slightly meeting at the nape of his neck. Henry's hat, which Potter had innocently enough brought along, was there, staring him in the eye.  
  
The new CO, a man of shorter stature, wandered in moments later, and, seeing Pierce in such a state, prodded aside a fold of the suspended surgical garb, and peered up into Hawkeye's face. "You okay, Pierce?"  
  
Hawkeye's arms unbent at the elbows, and slowly came down to shake off the shirt the rest of the way. His eyes shot over to Potter's face. "Where did that come from?" he asked solemnly, pointing with a directed look towards the hat.  
  
"Oh, that," Potter replied, stepping forward and retrieving the item from the shelf. The limp folding of the well-worn material made Hawkeye's heart sink; he felt somewhat nauseated all of a sudden. "I found it in my tent, just sitting there. You know who it--"  
  
"Oh." He interrupted himself, the look on Hawkeye's face piecing together the mystery. Of course, he'd heard of the late, great Colonel Blake, and he knew that the camp as a whole had been wounded beyond the help of any surgeon save Father Time.  
  
Unconsciously he fiddled uncomfortably with the hat's brim, and Pierce could hardly stand it. "Colonel. . ." he mumbled, "Could you. . . well, do you think that I could--"  
  
"Of course, Captain. You'd be able to keep it better than I could." He quietly handed over the be-lured fishing hat, and Pierce, forgetting to change out of the pants that matched the now discarded shirt, slung his robe over his shoulder and made for the swamp. The afternoon sun glared in his face, and he was glad to get into the shade and, now, increasingly, warmth of the filthy tent.  
  
When B.J. entered the tent after supper, expecting to find Hawkeye there, asleep, he only found his roommate's bed with signs of having been slept in, though poorly, by the sight of the blankets on the floor and the throttled pillows, and the distinct scent of liquor permeating the entire tent. It took him a second to recognize the hat that lay atop the ruffles sheets as that of the fellow he'd met the night before.  
  
~ 


	7. Chapter 11: Duties to the Dead

A 97% efficiency rating. What does that mean, all in all? Only that Henry Blake had been accurate in his statement that the first rule of war is that young men die.  
  
"And rule number two is that doctors can't change rule number one." Hawkeye drunkenly mumbled to himself. His stomach gurgled, indignant at having been filled with so much venom before even getting the mild pittance it expected from the Mess tent. "Shut up, you."  
  
Two men. Two young men had died during that session in the O.R. The ones who had arrived dead had already gone in the vehicles in which they'd arrived. Two was certainly more than they were used to losing in a session that, comparatively, short. It didn't help matters that Hawkeye had Henry on the brain. He stared out from behind the green mesh of the tent and the dark haze of the alcohol, and began to wonder about the families of those men in there. It wasn't something he enjoyed dwelling on. He could see the film that Henry had shown them, of his daughter's birthday party, and he could see it in triplicate. Three Lorraines. Three little girls. Three birthday cakes. Three fathers, three husbands never coming back.  
  
So, when Hawkeye saw Father Mulcahy hurrying across the compound to begin his grisly offices, he pulled himself together as much as possible, and hobbled after. "Need a hand, Padre?"  
  
The chaplain couldn't help but look surprised at the offer. He was about to politely decline, but he saw something desperately needing in Hawkeye's countenance, and he gave a slight bob of the head. "I'd appreciate some company." He finally uttered.  
  
Hawkeye shoved his hands deep in his pockets, and quipped, "Well, yeah, not exactly a lively bunch, are they?"  
  
Mulcahy felt it best to let the joke fall on no reply but a brief smile, understanding that Hawkeye meant no disrespect.  
  
Hawkeye fell into place next to the chaplain. "Thanks." He appended.  
  
Dinner came and went. The two men indexed the personal belongings of the two men, and in the course of time grew to know them more intimately than Hawkeye had perhaps foreseen, although he was almost happy to be subjecting himself to it.  
  
It was nearly time to send their sometime guests on their way.  
  
The darkness of the compound was made doubly dark by the fact that Hawkeye's eyelids refused to leave the sticky surface of his eyeballs except for the briefest of moments. Nonetheless, driven by grief, he entered the supply tent to slide out a pair of the coffins that, gratefully for most people, but rather painfully for Pierce right now, lay dusty and mostly unused in a back corner of the tent.  
  
"I wonder if I can just lift the side of the tent up and get them out over that way," Hawkeye pondered to himself, hardly noticing the coffin door before him beginning to open silently.  
  
~ 


	8. Chapter 12: Early to Bed Chapter 13: E...

When the camp was silent, and had been silent for a good while, Henry shuffled away from the wall and out from under the bed. In his confusion about the hat, Colonel Potter had left the light on, giving Henry a fuller view of the new digs. He sat down on the cot, blinked once or twice in confusion, and then stood up again.  
  
Turning, he peered down at the surface on which he'd been sitting. "A mattress?" he wondered quietly, a hint of envy creeping into his tone. "A mattress." He repeated, shrugging as he turned his attention to a shirt draped over a chair. "Oh. A full colonel. Well, that explains that." His gaze grew more vacant, and he stared off across the room. "And here I am, talking to myself."  
  
Beating his fist into the palm of his opposite hand, issuing forth a loud smack, "Gosh darnit, Henry, why all this sneaking around?" He demanded of himself. "You coulda just come in here, found Hawk or Trap, had a talk, had a drink-err-well, right." The thought of the boy flashed into his mind and stuck there, an annoying fly that won't quite get out of his field of vision. He opened his mouth to add something else to his tirade to self. And shut it again. No sense finding anybody now. They'll all be in surgery. And the OR is the last place on earth, Henry suspected, that he needed or wanted to be. He'd have to find them tomorrow. He briefly estimated by the size of the first rush of choppers that they'd be out sometime early -----afternoon.  
  
"Oh, Jeez." He muttered, coming outside and looking up at the dark 4 AM sky, which, as had just occurred to him, wouldn't stay dark forever. If he really was-- that is to day, if his predicament was what he thought it might be-- well, what kinds of ill effects would it have on him, during the, you know, daytime? Walking out into the empty compound, he thought on what he knew about vampires. Garlic and crosses were supposed to keep them away. Stakes through the heart and sunlight were supposed to kill them.  
  
A quick stop in Father Mulcahy's tent and around back of the mess tent were easy enough tests of the first two. He indeed had felt a small twinge of guilt about going through the chaplain's personal belongings in his absence, and on attempting to ingest a bit of garlic had been forced to throw the chewed substance back up, but he had felt no pain or extraordinary fear on account of the crosses, and when he attempted the food experiment with some of the other items (though he chucklingly admitted that it was hard enough to keep down when he was alive) he had come to the same results.  
  
He had some idea that he had had a stake through his heart before, and that he had survived. In a manner of speaking.  
  
Towards dawn, he grew nervous. Not to mention tired. Sunlight isn't a cross. If it starts to irritate, there's no quick getting away from it.  
  
"Oh, God. I can't believe I'm doing this." Henry yawned, as he stepped into the coffin and shut the lid.  
  
~  
  
Henry didn't even have the wherewithal to groan in pain as he awoke the next evening. 'Have I been flipping /sleepwalking/?' he grimaced to himself, for that drained, empty feeling was back. And worse than ever. His jaw gaped open, his fangs extended in the darkness of the coffin. His body was freezing cold, and it hurt to blink; it hurt to breathe. In fact, he halted both of these activities, which he had continued out of sheer force of habit in the time since his death.  
  
When the throbbing scent of life made itself known outside his hastily chosen abode, he inwardly panicked. But that only lasted a second. He moved as if on autopilot, opening the coffin and calmly stepping out.  
  
The fangs lighting upon the startled throat of Hawkeye Pierce cut short the intoxication-delayed cry that attempted to issue forth.  
  
Henry's arms slipped under the slumping arms of the suddenly docile doctor and held him up with an amount of ease that would have startled him if he'd been paying attention. But that was not, of course, the case.  
  
It was the best thing he'd ever tasted in his life. He drank in the red gushing liquid and it hardly seemed to go down his throat as much as soak into his tongue and the roof of his mouth. A giddy giggle echoed inside his head as the Thing inside him became whetted and eventually leaned toward not causing him to ache any longer. Meanwhile, beyond the pure satisfaction of the blood, there was something else, something that spoke to Henry himself. It took him a moment to put his finger on it, but then the familiar burn and then dull soothe of the caustic fluid, not to mention its relaxing effects, clicked into place.  
  
'Ah,' thought Henry, finding himself recognizing the tint of the juice of the swamp rats' gin machine, 'This morning was a very good year.'  
  
Letting the blood soothe his beast, and the gin soothe his nerves, Henry drank.  
  
~ 


	9. Chapter 14: A New Procedure Chapter ...

And drank. And when he began to feel sated, he shifted the somewhat lighter load he carried somewhat in his arms, and one of his hands became tangled in a mass of unbrushed, unkempt black hair. As his senses began to return to him, Henry's suddenly discerning tongue lingered in the wound, only to find no trace of the damage that he'd caused remaining.  
  
Something jumped inside of him as he felt the picture come into focus, and, dropping the body, he stumbled backwards over the edge of the coffin, nearly toppling back himself, but finally stabilizing himself with one foot on the floor and the other in the coffin, in an attitude of horrified retreat.  
  
"Oh, jeez, not again!" Henry bemoaned the situation, his forehead furrowing in deepest worry. The wave of nauseated guilt came over him like an entire ocean, but there was nothing on earth that was going to get him to vomit up his ill-gotten sustenance. Frowning, he set his chin a bit, shaking off the pangs of guilt. He hadn't any time to waste on simply feeling bad. He'd have to act quickly if Hawkeye was going to survive. He easily hefted the (he groaned, somewhat lighter) body of Captain Pierce, cradling it like a child, and strode out into the compound, making a beeline for pre-op.  
  
B.J., who had heard the shout from the supply tent, frowned as he hastily exited the swamp, and yelled out in surprise when he saw the fellow from yesterday night holding the prone form of his first friend in Korea.  
  
"What the hell happened?" he demanded to know, reaching towards Hawkeye's hand to feel for his vitals.  
  
"It's a long story," Henry snapped back, shifting Hawk's body out of the direction of B.J.'s reach. "He's got to get some blood in him." He added as he carefully maneuvered into pre-op. He barked the blood type at the moustached fellow who'd followed him in, and told him rather roughly to go get it.  
  
"But there's no-" B.J. protested.  
  
"Look, fella, I'm a doctor, okay? I know what I'm doing. Go get an I.V. set up, on the double, or he won't have a chance." He frowned, that queasy feeling rushing over him as he recalled the distinct pleasure he'd taken from glutting himself on his friend's blood. "And, um," he added, somewhat guiltily, as B.J. "Keep it coming."  
  
"Is something wrong, B.J.?" asked Father Mulcahy as he met the doctor in the doorway. "I heard a--" he cut himself off as he spotted the two figures in the pre-op ward. A second later the priest was nearly beaming from every pore with the shocked joy of one who has just witnessed a miracle.  
  
"Henry!"  
  
~  
  
"You're alive!"  
  
"Yeah, well. . ." Henry dodged the topic, laying Hawkeye out on a guerney.  
  
"What happened?" Mulcahy followed up, his supreme joy hardly fading as he approached the unconscious surgeon. He might have been more concerned if the severity of Hawkeye's condition was obvious, but not even a trace of blood remained on his slightly pale neck.  
  
"He killed him." A voice spoke in the back of Mulcahy's head.  
  
"What?" He replied out loud, looking behind him as B.J. re-entered with an IV of blood set up, which Henry with unnatural deftness slipped into Hawkeye's arm. "Another one," he called hastily, "Get another one." He began to roll up Hawkeye's other armsleeve, and took his pulse, which was weak and getting weaker.  
  
"Don't you think we should do some test--" attempted B.J., this procedure of randomly pumping blood into a patient rather new to him.  
  
"No! We can't take any more." Henry grabbed B.J.'s hand and placed it on the pulse point. "Feel that? Want to ask any more questions?" he demanded, and B.J., startled by Hawkeye's poor condition and the icy feel of this fellow's hand, went running back for a second IV setup.  
  
"He's going to kill you, too." Echoed the voice in Mulcahy's head. He turned to look back at Henry, whose face suddenly appeared to be in an early stage of decomposition. He rubbed his eyes, and it was only Henry again. He trembled from head to toe.  
  
"Do something!" urged the voice, "Kill it! Stop it!"  
  
Mulcahy dropped to his knees, and unsteadily made a blessing sign. "Don't! Henry, don't!"  
  
B.J. ran back into the room with the second I.V., passing it off to the cold doctor before even taking in the odd scene between the priest and the stranger. "Father?" He asked, concerned, then, back to Henry, "Henry?" "I used to work here, but, you see, I was on my way home, and I got. . . lost," the words suddenly clicked with the name, and he went wide-eyed. "Henry Blake?"  
  
"Last time I checked." Henry quipped stressedly as he outfitted Hawkeye with the second I.V.  
  
"What is he talking about?" he asked, concerning the priest.  
  
"I---" Henry looked over to Mulcahy, and as their eyes met, he knew exactly what he meant. He felt, moreover, a deep shame stabbing him to the quick. He turned his face away, and felt for Hawk's pulse again, though his previously unusually nimble fingers now felt made of lead and highly lethargic. "I don't know," he lied.  
  
~ 


	10. Chapter 16: A New Cross To Bear

The intense feeling of Mulcahy's gaze upon him was only broken by the panic Henry felt at feeling a final beat, then, finally, no pulse at all in Hawkeye.  
  
"Adrenaline," both the doctors shouted at the same time, Henry added, "Start compressions," before racing off and returning mere seconds later with the required needle. He had the needle in place and the adrenaline administered before anyone could even blink. The compressions followed, and Mulcahy, though feeling prickles at the back of his neck when he got too near to Henry, tried to put it out of his mind as he pinched Hawk's nose, tilted his head back, and breathed in at the correct time.  
  
When he inhaled into the surgeon's lungs, Mulcahy's eyes widened at the giddy, joyful feeling he felt flutter inside himself. It was the feeling of a smile on an orphaned child, of a good deed done in secrecy, of self- denial and living for others, all magnified by a thousand and focused directly in his stomach. . . rather, heart. . . rather, throat. . . rather. . . mouth? As he exhaled a second time, he could almost feel Something pass from himself to Hawkeye.  
  
After the next set of compressions, the surgeon's pulse not only burst back into steady rhythm, but he gasped in air of his own accord, and his eyes opened wide.  
  
"P-pardon me," he murmured as Hawkeye attempted to get his bearings, and ran back to his tent. Closing the door behind him, he leaned up against it, eyes looking up through the earthly green material. "Oh, pardon me," he repeated.  
  
Inexplicably drawn there, Mulcahy knelt down to the footlocker in which he kept all the trappings of his trade. His arm erupted in goosebumps as his hand reached in among the items. He was almost consciously aware of the taint he felt there, the lingering traces of a beast of an evil the likes of which he'd not yet encountered. Unfortunately, he thought with a groan as he desperately shut his eyes, he had a pretty good idea of where this evil lay.  
  
When he opened his eyes again, they were focused on an object he'd almost forgotten about. It was one of his old chaplain's cross pins, which had gotten the tip of the long leg broken off trying to stop a brawl among some bored and restless non-commissioned officers.  
  
Mulcahy, staring at the item, got it into his head to take it and wear it on the other side of his collar. As he closed the locker, the faux-brass trimming on its edge reflected the sight of the two crosses on the priest's collar. It might have been a trick of the light, but they seemed to shimmer radiantly as their image caught his eye. He took comfort in it.  
  
~ 


	11. Chapter 17: Midnight Staff Meeting

The news of Hawkeye's mysterious malady, though it would most definitely have had equal footing if he had, in fact, died, was drowned in the spreading rumors of the return of Henry Blake. Lights switched on as dark figures rand from tent to tent with the news, and soon not one eye was shut in the entire compound. Except, of course, for Hawkeye's. He was sleeping peacefully, and every once in a while a new IV was brought him.  
  
Henry stayed at Hawkeye's bedside as long as he was able. But when the nurses and other hospital staff came wandering in in hordes to see whether he was really there or not, he eventually had to cede the place. B.J., Potter, Radar and Klinger had congregated in Potter's office, and were waiting for him.  
  
"How's he?" started Potter, all business.  
  
"Oh, just fine. Well, stable, that is." Henry affably replied.  
  
It was B.J.'s turn to speak up. "You! From last night! Why didn't you tell me you were Colonel Blake?"  
  
Henry kind of smirked, "Well, I didn't know I was supposed to be---", he started, but his face fell into a more serious expression as Radar's eyes met his through those smudged spectacles of his.  
  
"Dead." He finished. "Hey, kid, looks like we had our reunion a little earlier than we'd planned, hm?" As he spoke, the look on Radar's face nearly caused him to weep from the pure outpouring of emotion. The rest of the group was silent in respect for the moment that Henry realized how torn up Radar must have been by the report of his death. As if to prove that he was real, he stepped over, tilting his head down to look into the somewhat lower eyes of the corporal, and hugged him closely, rubbing his hands up and down his back in a "cheer-up," kind of gesture, saying, "Come on, Radar, it's me. I'm fine. Really." Stepping back, keeping his hands on Radar's arms, he noticed the boy trembling a bit from his own cold touch, and withdrew his hands.  
  
He suddenly recalled that he wasn't breathing, and took a deep breath, trying to get into the habit of it again. Smirking a bit, he blew on his hands. Of course, the air stayed the temperature of the office, but he rubbed his hands together, commenting, "It's getting cold out there, already, hm? Winter comes on fast here." He grimaced slightly, "Not five minutes, and I'm already talking about the weather." A light chuckle ran over the tent, relieving some of the tension.  
  
"So," spoke up Klinger, "I suppose you know that the loss of a loved one, followed by their miraculous return to life, can inflict severe psychological confusion, can even bring on episodes of--"  
  
"He still at it?" Henry asked Potter.  
  
"Non-stop." Potter agreed, giving Klinger an annoyed look.  
  
"Can't say as I'm susprised." He looked over the long black nightgown with the lacy top that was almost indistinguishable from the corpsman's thick chest hair and shook his head.  
  
Klinger looked down at himself, as well. "Oh, God! What am I thinking?!" he cracked a grin, "You're alive again, Colonel! I can stop trying to find new pieces for my all-black wardrobe."  
  
Henry looked incredulous, "Klinger-"  
  
"No, Klinger's telling the truth, Henry. Sometime you ought to see the little number he did up, the one with the bow in the back. Nothing flashy- and such a neat little veil." B.J. began to rattle on, filling the space with a chipper prattle. "A perfect little old widowed something-or-other."  
  
Henry leaned back against the wall, smiling at the reports of Klinger's high jinks. Through the light fog of alcohol-laced blood, however, came the cutting last words of the surgeon. "Oh, God!" he mumbled, his eyes growing wide with panic as he remembered the notice which must have already gotten home by this point.  
  
Radar was halfway out the door, "I'll get her on the phone right away, sir."  
  
"Radar, get my wife on the phone right away," Henry was meantime prattling, standing up straight again in concern.  
  
Potter nodded approbation, obviously feeling Henry's concern.  
  
"Oh, God," Henry repeated, "Lorraine. . ."  
  
"Majors Burns and Houlihan to see you sir," Radar spoke, poking his head in just ahead of the barging majors, who had just returned from a coincidentally simultaneous weekend of R&R in Seoul.  
  
"Show them in." the two Colonels replied in unison.  
  
"Err-" Henry smiled a jauntily deferring smile at Potter.  
  
"Colonel Potter!" Hot Lips cried, dragging the pale Ferret Face in her wake. Frank's eyes focused on Henry, and his mouth gaped open. It opened and shut a few times, until he began to resemble a fish.  
  
"Major Burns and I demand to know the reason why the entire camp is up and about so late at night. It's highly unmilitary. When you came here, Frank was, of course, disappointed that he hadn't gotten the command, but he-we had high expectations that your command would bring with it some level of military authority! We seriously hope that this camp won't revert to the fiasco it was with Henry Blake in charge," she warned. "Don't we, Frank." She added to punctuate her statement. "Frank?"  
  
She looked from Potter to Frank, then slowly turned, following the direction of his boggling eyes. Henry lifted a hand and briefly wiggled his fingers in a wave, a slightly amused expression perched jovially on his features.  
  
Margaret nearly fainted. As it was, she had to sit down.  
  
"You. You're. . ."  
  
"Yeah, well," Henry cut her statement short, really tired of hearing how alive he was.  
  
"Your plane crashed! You mean, you survived?" Margaret found her feet again, "But look at you. . . you look horrible."  
  
"Gee, thanks, Major." Henry chortled.  
  
"She's not kidding, Henry," B.J. affirmed. "You're really pale."  
  
"You should probably get checked out, Blake," Potter threw in, the voice of authority. "You might feel alright, but you never know. A plane crash isn't exactly something one would expect you to come through intact, much less without any damage at all."  
  
Henry shifted a bit, "No," he stated as their petitions died off. "No way. I'm not going through any examination," he concluded, a slice of his hand through the air lending authority to his statement.  
  
"In blue blazes, why not, Blake?" Potter queried.  
  
"Why don't you ask Hawkeye?" A light voice called from the doorway. Father Mulcahy had just entered, a cloud of disapproving gloom over his normally bright face.  
  
~ 


	12. Chapter 18: My Kingdom For a Pulse!

"Hawkeye, Padre?" asked Potter after the room was steeped in a moment of confused silence. Henry shifted his stance uncomfortably in Mulcahy's presence. Mulcahy couldn't bring himself to look at him. He stepped forward.  
  
"Yes, Colonel. Hawkeye. That--" he pointed to Henry, "That-- thing over there tried to kill him!"  
  
B.J. slowly slid out of his seat, concerned about the priest. He spoke slowly. "Father? Henry helped us /save/ Hawkeye." He reminded him slowly, non-threateningly, as one speaking to a confused child. "Remember?"  
  
Mulcahy stamped his foot in frustration. "That's not Colonel Blake! Can't you see that?" Looking around, he saw that Blake himself was the only one who understood. Raising his voice in both pitch and volume, "It's some creature, some fiendish-- thing! Colonel Blake is dead!"  
  
Klinger whistled. "Hoo boy. Okay, Father, you can get in line ahead of me for that Section 8."  
  
Mulcahy looked into Klinger's skeptical eyes. "You don't believe me! Check!"  
  
Turning to Potter, "Just check!" he pointed at Henry emphatically. "Why do you think he won't let you examine him? You'll find out that he's dead! Just check! You're a doctor. Just try and find me proof that he's alive."  
  
Potter's face turned quite serious. "Calm down, Padre, sure, we'll check. Everything'll be just fine." He stood and looked toward Henry, "Here, let's just humor the poor man," he uttered lowly, "I'll have Radar call in Dr. Freedman later on."  
  
Henry couldn't speak. What excuse could he possibly make? He hardly heard the words that Potter was speaking to him. His eyes shifted from Potter's approaching form to the discerning eyes of the chaplain, and under that harshest of gazes he began to obediently offer his wrist for examination.  
  
'Come on, old buddy,' he inwardly told his cold and dormant heart, 'just a little beating, for old times' sake. Come on... you can do it,' he pleaded in terror. He set his jaw as the Colonel's fingers approached.  
  
To the rest of the room, Henry seemed to blush a bit at the necessity of the examination. Potter indeed felt the pulse that he had expected.  
  
"He seems to be alive, Father," he spoke quietly, glancing from the blushing Henry to the frantic priest, whose eyes grew wide at the news.  
  
"What?" he exclaimed, rushing forward. "Give me that!"  
  
Henry shuddered, feeling the inward drain of that precious fluid as he forced his body to 'look alive,' as it were. But he stabilized himself on the edge of Potter's desk and held out the arm willingly, almost proudly, to Mulcahy. "See, Father?" he spoke emphatically. "I'm fine." He let his face melt into a warm, affable smile, and he put every inch of himself into being charming and convincing, into being affable around the suddenly creepy Mulcahy, and the same lovable old Henry Blake to the rest of the team.  
  
Mulcahy felt the pulse and dropped Henry's proferred wrist as if it burned him.  
  
"Deception!" he called out, "Unholy deception! Henry!" he reached for Blake's gaze with his own, making contact and leaning forward. Lowering his tone into a dark, deep voice of admonition, he continued, "Henry, stop this. Stop this-- this-- this masquerade!"  
  
~ 


	13. Chapter 18 and a Half: A Brief Interlud...

Hawkeye stirred quietly in the post-op bed, then ruffled the sheets a little louder, trying to get comfortable, turning over on his side and trying to curl into a little ball, mistaking the bright lights of the post- op ward to the unwelcome arrival of the morning sun in his own cozy, filth- ridden cot.  
  
"Aaa-aoo-oow!" he jumped up suddenly, as he'd put undue pressure on the IV needle which was dripping the last of the required blood into his system.  
  
Nurse Samden hurried over, putting her hand on his shoulder, "Hawkeye! Please lie back down!"  
  
Hawkeye grimaced and set his feet on the floor, gripping his jabbed arm with one hand. "I'm a doctor, Julie," he reminded her, "I don't need your advice. Just give me two aspirin and I'll call myself in the morning."  
  
He peered out the window. In fact, it was still night out, and in further fact, he had a pounding headache. Julie went to fetch the aspirin.  
  
Hawkeye kept on rambling as she returned, "And don't forget to send me my bill. Might want to place me a phone call, too, or else I'll never get paid." He smiled at her with a wan approximation of a leer, "I'm such a deadbeat."  
  
He took the aspirin dry, with some difficulty. "But after all, what do you expect with these lousy army wages? I can't afford the kinds of prices I charge! I bet I don't even allow credit."  
  
He plucked the needle expertly from his arm, "I've even had to stoop to moonlighting as undertaker. And even then I have no luck! I work all day saving lives... I'm running myself out of business! See what I've driven myself to? If only I had the decency to take on a hard luck case now and again..." He was going on autopilot, more or less, the pounding in his head taking the greater part of his attention. He stood and quitted post- op with a general come-on line to Nurse Samden, and stood outside, taking a breath of fresh air to cut the fog in his brain.  
  
A cluster of silhouettes on the shaded window of Colonel Potter's office caught his eye, and he squinted in that direction.  
  
~ 


	14. Chapter 19: The Confession

"I said 'humor him', Blake, not 'egg him on,'" warned Potter in a low tone.  
  
Margaret vacated the chair she had sunk into earlier, and allowed the more than a little distressed-looking Lieutenant Colonel to slide down onto the well-worn wooden surface. Ever since his interchange with Mulcahy, her businesslike mask, already cracked a bit by the surprise of Henry's return to the living, had melted into one of full-fledged concern for Henry's well- being. Frank seemed to notice the change in her attitude and, as always followed suit, his nonexistent lower lip protruding a bit as he went to stand behind his Major.  
  
Henry crossed one leg over another and, in a rather serious gesture, laid his hands atop the surface of his calf. He knew the draining feeling well by now. He knew what it would eventually mean. Mulcahy's words had conjured up in him images of more furtive attacks on-- on children, no less, and unsuspecting doctors just trying to do a job, on nurses in the night, on patients who would mysteriously die after flawless operations. He knew that bringing the truth out now would be the best thing for everyone.  
  
"And I said (respectfully, sir, of course,) that Father Mulcahy is right. About everything."  
  
"Everything, Blake? Let me get this right," Potter perched incredulously on the edge of his desk. "That would make you--" he hesitated.  
  
"Dead. Yes, sir." Henry affirmed.  
  
"You are aware that you have a pulse?"  
  
"Yes, I know, I put it there. Or, rather, my heart put it there, but it wasn't doing that before, that's... ahh... a recent development." He struggled for words, and found, of course the most appropriate military phraseology.  
  
"A recent development..." echoed Potter. "You mean to tell me that your ticker just started ticking? And it never had before?"  
  
Henry nodded affirmative. "Not since the crash, sir."  
  
"Colonel Blake, sir?" piped up a quiet and timid looking Radar from a crack in the double doors approximately two inches wide. Nobody in the room had any doubt that the clerk had heard all from his position at the phones. "Your wife, sir."  
  
In the encounter with Mulcahy, Henry had almost forgotten. He stood again, and was halfway to the door when he stopped. "No. I ought to get this settled out with you all, first," looking back at the group. "Radar," he added, settling a hand on the boy's shoulder in the normal fatherly manner he'd been accustomed to taking with him.  
  
"I'll tell her you're alright, sir, and that you'll call up later. Yes, sir."  
  
"Tell her that I'm just fine and that I'll-- thanks, Radar," Henry murmured. "Then you should probably come back in here." He added, calling after the clerk as he went back to his post and picked up the phone.  
  
Turning back to face Potter and the rest of the group, "Um. Where was I?"  
  
"The part about your being dead, Henry," encouraged Mulcahy, stepping toward him, no longer intimidating and threatening, and more like his normal self now that he'd gotten the desired confession.  
  
"Oh." Henry uttered uncomfortably, "Righty-o."  
  
Mulcahy, taking up a prompting and somewhat forceful tone, edged closer. "Now, were you or were you not the one who tried to kill Hawkeye?"  
  
Henry, overcome with guilt, looked down to the floor, "Look, Father, Hawkeye's going to be just fine."  
  
"That's not the point. And you know it."  
  
Henry made a somewhat resigned sound. "Yep. I know it, Father." He looked up, his face contorted slightly with the guilt of Hawkeye's blood on his hands, or fangs, or whatever. "But you've got to know that I really didn't mean to--" his eyes met Mulcahy's, "Well, I guess I did, but I didn't want to--" their eyes met again, and Henry felt compelled toward the truth. "Oh, fine, I wanted to, okay? I admit it! But I /do/ feel /really/ //really// bad about it. And that's a fact."  
  
Mulcahy searched Henry's face for a moment, then nodded and seemed to accept this as truth.  
  
"Wait a minute." Potter resumed, now wholly serious, and not at all sarcastic in his tone. This was the health of his chief surgeon, after all. "Are you saying that whatever happened to Pierce was your fault, Blake?"  
  
"That's what he's saying, Colonel," Hawkeye readily answered from the doorway. "I should know. I was there."  
  
When Henry spun around back toward the door, Hawkeye gave him a dull smirk. "It was good to see you again, too, Henry. But maybe next time a simple handshake would do. Hm?"  
  
~ 


	15. Chapter 20: 'Tis Presence, Makes the Wor...

Margaret made sure Hawkeye was settled at one of the tables in the deserted mess tent, and started up a pot of what passed for coffee in this man's army. As she leaned back against the table that served as buffet at mealtimes, listening out for the coffee to be done, she murmured, "That poor man," just loud enough to be heard by the ears on the drooping head of the slouching Hawkeye. He was still a bit worn out from his experience, and decided that a bit of coffee would put him in a state to be up the rest of the night with their new old commander. Potter had suggested that Margaret go with him, just in case.  
  
Hawkeye perked up at her words, "What's that, Major?" he chimed winsomely. "Want to come here and make me better?"  
  
Her face solidified into her usual disapproving grimace. "Not you, Pierce." She chided. "Henry! What he's gone through... I can't imagine!"  
  
"What /he's/ gone through? Margaret, you're forgetting who got attacked, here." He tapped the side of his neck, "Remember?" The story of the attack, had, of course, come out in the staff meeting before the troupe, less the fawning Major and the somnolent Captain, had wandered over to the examination room to try to put a finger on what exactly was going on.  
  
Margaret poured a cup of coffee and bore it hastily, almost impatiently, to Hawkeye. "Drink." She said, obviously no less than an order. She didn't figure he'd understand, anyhow. What a traumatic week Henry had had, and with what a steady head he'd taken the entirety of it.  
  
Hawkeye briefly forgot to defy her and took a sip, looking up at her face as he did so.  
  
The coffee cup drifted away from his face to reveal an ear-to-ear grin.  
  
"Why, Margaret!"  
  
She looked down at him crossly, about to ask what he wanted now before he followed up,  
  
"You're smitten!"  
  
Margaret, flustered, sputtered, "I-- I don't know what you're talking about!"  
  
Hawkeye half-stood up, abandoning his coffee, this little amusement much more fascinating.  
  
"Yes, you do! I see it! That look... I've seen it before. That's the 'Oh, you want a private meeting with me, General?' look! That's the 'Frank, I just got a new medical journal in mail call, will you go through it with me?' look!" He leaned back on the table's edge, giggling with glee in between accusations. He was exaggerating, of course... but he'd picked up on it, nevertheless, and her reaction -- something near panic -- was enough to lead him on.  
  
She wheeled around and picked up the coffee mug, shoving it into the surgeon's hands, spilling some of the cooling liquid down his shirtfront. "Drink your coffee, Pierce, and stop making childish comments." She hastily went to pour another cup of coffee. SHE needed one now. If only to put her mind off of Hawkeye's intimations.  
  
"Oh, don't worry, Hot Lips," Hawkeye called after her, "I won't say a word. I just didn't think Henry was your type, that's all... you know... unmilitary... unmuscular... undead." He finished up. He grinned and looked over to see her reaction just in time to dodge out of the way of the coffee cup flying at his head.  
  
As she stormed out of the room, he wondered why everyone seemed to want him dead, tonight.  
  
While he was formulating a witty mental reply to his whimsical question, the word, "undead," jumped back into his mind.  
  
"Aha!" he contemplated. "So that's what's got a fire under Hot Lips. Maybe she's one of those women who goes to sleep with a copy of Dracula under her pillow and makes sure never to eat anything with garlic on it, just in case Mr. Tall Dark and Fanged should be around the next dark corner."  
  
He chuckled lightly to himself, getting a kick out of trying to imagine what Houlihan might be imagining. He sipped his coffee and silently lifted a hand to his neck. Come to think of it, the entire experience hadn't felt too bad at all. In fact... well, yes, the actual feeling, which he'd made serious efforts to put in an unused corner of his subconscious mind simply because it was connected to the personage of Henry B. Blake (hell, he might joke about those kind of things, but beyond a point it just got creepy -- not that there was much that wasn't creepy about the night, so far), was far more enticing than any sexual encounter he'd had in his life.  
  
He might have to check around for another sort of 'ladies of the night' from now on.  
  
His mind turned back to the subject of Margaret and her newest infatuation. He tucked away in the back of his thoughts a seedling idea that this was too great an opportunity to pass up, and headed over to the examining room to see how things were progressing there.  
  
~ 


	16. Chapter 21: In Which It Becomes Clear T...

"Let me get this straight: You call me here last week because your CO's dead. That's understandable. Some people have trouble grieving. Tonight you call me in from the front -- thanks very much for that little favor, by the way, the Chinese were getting a bit too antsy for my liking -- because your CO's alive again." Freedman nodded brief deference to Potter, "Former CO, rather." Potter nodded forgiveness for the blunder, and Freedman continued, "And now you're telling me that he's dead again?"  
  
Sydney looked across the room to Henry, who was busy peering at a slide through a microscope. "Now, Henry, I know that decision-making isn't exactly your strong suit, but these folks are going to genuinely crack if you can't make up your mind on this matter. Speaking of suits, since I haven't seen any real signs of cracking around here -- Sorry, Klinger -- how's about we get up a game?"  
  
"Holy cow..." muttered Henry, giving no sign that he'd heard anything of what the psychologist was saying.  
  
"Poker?" thundered Potter, "Sydney, we've got a man here who should by all rights be reaching the 'doornail' state, and you want to play a game of poker?"  
  
Sydney looked Henry over as he stood up from the stool and boggled down at the microscope machine. "I don't know, he looks alright to me. You lose some weight, Henry?"  
  
"Yeah, now that you mention it, I do think I dropped a fe--" Henry started absent-mindedly, then cut himself short. "Sidney! For crying out loud..."  
  
"Freedman, take a look under that glass." Potter ordered solemnly.  
  
The psychologist shrugged and went over to peer in. "So?"  
  
"So?!" Potter bellowed, then calmed himself. After all, it'd probably been a few years since Sid had seen that side of the medical profession. "So," he repeated, more gently, but still quite seriously, "Blood isn't supposed to... to do that." He felt strange talking about blood as an active agent like that, and it took a second for him to wrap his mind around it.  
  
"To do what, Colonel?" queried Pierce, who had just walked in, a splash of coffee down his shirt and another, larger one across his shoulder.  
  
"Where's Margaret, Pierce? She should see this, too." He gestured over to the microscope. Henry yielded the floor in front of the machine to Hawkeye, who duly stepped toward it, asking, meanwhile, "So, how's our patient, Colonel? Margaret had some ladies' troubles." He snickered softly. "I'm glad I got out of there with my skin."  
  
Potter shook his head, "Well, this is my third war, and I've had the great misfortune of having to pronounce many men to be dead. But I think this is the first time I've ever had to pronounce it to his face. And just take a look at that blood sample. I can't make head or tail of it."  
  
Pierce had been leaning over the machine during this last statement, and was quiet for a while. "Hmm." He finally uttered.  
  
"You know, Henry," he went on, "I have the strangest feeling that this is approximately what it would look like for two different blood types, say, for instance, yours and mine, to coexist without clotting." He stood up with an amused grin on his face. Henry's eyes widened and he sat down slowly on the examination table.  
  
"Oh, jeez, Hawk..." was all he could think to say.  
  
Radar, who had been making himself inconspicuous in a corner and who had been looking more and more uncomfortable as the examination went on, suddenly turned a greenish hue and rushed outside.  
  
Henry placed his hands at his sides upon the table to go after the boy, but was halted by a gesture from Sidney. "I'll go talk to him, Henry." Colonel Blake settled back down. He began to feel aware of the nearly palpable stare of the chaplain on the back of his head. He shook it off when Hawkeye spoke.  
  
"Henry, you have to stop beating yourself up over what happened, okay? Something's wrong with you. Hell, everything's wrong with you. There'll have to be... adjustments... to your condition." He looked around to the somber crowd. "Condition! Listen to me, talking like a doctor. Why don't we call a duck a duck here, folks? Our little Henry's grown up into a full-fledged vampire." Hawkeye pinched gently at Henry's cheek with the attitude of a proud uncle, which seemed to amuse him, no matter what annoyed faces he made.  
  
"A being of darkness, you mean?" Mulcahy piped up. "A demon, maybe?"  
  
"A child of Cain..." whispered the voice in his head.  
  
"A child of Cain!" Mulcahy repeated emphatically. "Is that what you are, now, Henry?"  
  
"Now, just a second, Father--" Henry objected.  
  
Hawkeye spoke at about the same time, "Calm down, Padre... He's still our Henry Blake, same lovable guy as always. Right, Henry?"  
  
Henry hopped up from where he was seated. Sidney's comment about him had not been completely unfounded. He seemed a good deal fitter than in life, his face and features even a tad more youthful. "Of course, Pierce." He agreed readily.  
  
Mulcahy stood solemnly, his face etched in a non-customary worried frown. "I'm not sure I can believe that." He looked down to the floor briefly, and quickly amended, "However much I'd like to. Something-- Someone-- tells me it's wrong."  
  
Hawkeye looked up briefly to the ceiling, "Someone, Father?"  
  
Mulcahy caught the gesture, and weakly nodded. "I think so."  
  
Hawkeye, Henry, and Potter exchanged glances. Hawkeye broke the silence, "So now we've got two in the act. We'd better watch out the next time the moon is full."  
  
"Hawk?" asked Henry, confusedly.  
  
Hawkeye grinned and executed a little wolfish howl. "The nurses'd better keep on their toes... I might turn into a real animal..."  
  
Potter rolled his eyes, and turned to Blake and Mulcahy. "So. I'm not really sure about the proper procedure here. Give me a hand. Blake," he gestured to the Chaplain's collar. "Crosses?" He had to score a few points for managing to ask that particular question in a dignified and serious manner.  
  
"Ah, they're okay on their own, sir..." Henry replied, "But I'm sorry to say that the Padre there himself makes me feel a little..." he struggled for a word. "Ookey." Was all he could come up with.  
  
Mulcahy raised an eyebrow, "The feeling is mutual."  
  
"All right, all right. You think you can /control/ yourselves around one another?"  
  
Henry felt, and he was correct on this point, that the word 'control' had been directed at him. The two of them nodded like scolded children.  
  
"Fine, then. Now, I want someone to stay with Blake here at all times. We don't want a repeat of the episode in the supply tent, hear me?"  
  
Hawkeye smiled, "I'll babysit, Colonel," he volunteered.  
  
Potter nodded, "Good. And, uh, Klinger, make sure the VIP tent is set up. Set up a guard rotation shift for the door. I don't want anyone going in there with him alone, and I want to make sure he doesn't leave without an escort."  
  
Potter noted the mildly shocked expression on Henry's face. "You understand, I've got an outfit to run here, Henry."  
  
"Um... right, sir, of course."  
  
~ 


	17. Chapter 22: The Radar, Jammed?

Radar had managed to only get sick once on his way back to his room, but as he entered, his head was still spinning, and no matter what he tried to do, the thought of Hawkeye's blood running around in Henry's body hounded him, made him feel sick, made him almost physically hurt. He sat down on the edge of his bed, and, folding his hands under his mouth, recited a generic bedtime prayer he'd used at bedtime when he was little. Well, okay, so he'd used it up until the night before he left for Korea. He wanted to do something with his mouth other than throw up. In the pauses between his words, the silence in the room became conspicuous. It was eerily quiet. It wasn't normally ever /this/ quiet. Immediately Radar turned and untucked his blanket where it had been settled over a bulge.  
  
He jumped about three feet in the air as the bulge was revealed to be not the smiling face of his teddy bear, but instead a displaced pillow. On some level of which he was probably not even fully aware, he was glad for this new development. While he was panicking over his teddy bear's disappearance, he didn't have to think about Colonel Blake.  
  
In a few moments his blanket and sheet were on the floor, and he followed suit after them, rummaging through them and sliding under the cot to see if it hadn't fallen behind. The shelves above his bed next caught his attack, which was growing in intensity each second. For no reason whatever he moved to his desk and skewed the papers about. There was no way the bear could be hiding among them. But he let himself go at it, anyway, giving a much-needed vent to some of his emotional backup. He yelled a few times, and stamped his foot childishly, and threw his hat across the room, and finally sat down in his desk chair, removed his glasses, and buried his face in his hands.  
  
"Need some help redecorating?" Sidney called from the door.  
  
Radar startled. He hadn't noticed the Psychologist standing there, nor had he heard him enter.  
  
"No." he retorted crabbily, "And I don't need no head-shrinking, neither,"  
  
"You got it, Radar, no head shrinking."  
  
Radar looked up warily, staring somewhere in Sydney's direction. Or, at least, he thought that was about where he was standing. "You're just saying that so you can shrink my head."  
  
Sidney chortled. "You're sharp, kid. But really, I'll tuck away my mumbo-jumbo for now, hm? Why don't you tell me what's wrong."  
  
"I can't find my teddy bear." Radar whimpered in a grudging tone, like one who just wanted to be hugged.  
  
"Well, you don't need a psychologist to tell you why that is."  
  
Radar looked hopeful, "Oh?"  
  
"You don't have your glasses on, Radar."  
  
Radar huffed and put his hand out to pick up his glasses again. "Of course I /had/ 'em on when I was looking!" his hand fell flat on the disheveled paperwork. He ruffled around in them a bit, then shrieked, "Aaagh! I can't find those, either! Captain, gimme a hand, here!"  
  
Sidney walked forward and came to the desk. He organized the sheets of paper into piles, though he wasn't quite sure what belonged with what, while Radar helplessly called out admonitions about getting the daily reports all in with the supply requisition forms.  
  
The specs were, in fact, nowhere to be found.  
  
"Jeez! I must be cursed or something!" Radar cried.  
  
"Radar, you're not cursed." Sidney tried to comfort him. "Just calm down a moment. Where did you last put them down?"  
  
"On the desk!" Radar insisted.  
  
"Are you sure?" Sidney leaned down and examined the floor.  
  
"Yes, I'm sure!"  
  
"Well, then, they can't be far. It's not like they have legs. Calm down, we'll find 'em. Why don't you go sit down in bed, and I'll look for a while, hm?"  
  
Radar acquiesced, and went to bed. He half-pulled the covers over him, and, groping for his bear, and not finding it, redoubled his sulking. "Look for my bear, too..." He tossed out.  
  
"No problem. Meantime, why don't you talk to me about Henry..."  
  
~ 


	18. Chapter 23: In Which We Find The Bear a...

Sidney Freedman, ever the clear- and level-headed model of human reasoning, was wrong on one point. He was correct in his deduction that Radar's upset was caused chiefly by his close and warm emotions toward the recently- transformed Henry Blake. He was correct that it would be best for him to accommodate him for now, to be there when he needed to talk, but, most importantly, for him to try to make the two talk to one another in person. He had noticed that Radar had hardly said two words in the examination room, and that Henry seemed to want to address him, but seemed unsure of how to start, or what to say.  
  
So where, you might as, was Sidney mistaken? Only in his assertion that Radar's glasses had no legs. Whether or not his comment that the glasses couldn't be far off was correct or not depends entirely on whether or not you consider around the side wall outside Radar's office to be 'far off' or not.  
  
Yes, Radar's glasses do have legs. It used them, in the confusion of the mess and during Radar's interchange with Sidney, to scamper out the door. The legs are four in number and green in hue. The little winged, beaked lizard-bird chirruped quietly to its companion as it turned the corner.  
  
"What ho! By troth, I hail ye, Bantlehopp!" greeted the AWOL bear, rising into a little crouch from its curled position in a little packed circle of earth and crumpled yellow weed. It batted at the air with a paw in greeting as the tiny dragon approached.  
  
"And I you, tender Qotenmatch! In our  
  
Now so accustomed spot I've come to meet  
  
With ye and to discuss what now we must." Bantlehopp replied.  
  
Qot: What now we must, I think I know, my friend,  
  
But lest I am mistook, do say what weight  
  
There is upon thy soul.  
  
Ban: You have it right;  
  
I see that clear; yet takest now I the leave  
  
To speak my heart and have my tremors known:  
  
I fear that Corpse which worries our young ward!  
  
  
  
Qot: And so I thought, and so it is; a fright  
  
Indeed, what's fallen on poor Henry Blake.  
  
Ripped from day's bright light when just  
  
The rays began to fall from straight on high.  
  
Yea, noon had just now cleared the shadows right  
  
Or left of that man's path, when into night  
  
He fell, unwary.  
  
Ban: O! A fright? 'Poor Henry Blake,'  
  
Sayst thou? A fright indeed, and to a fright  
  
Does any one unaddled in his brains not turn  
  
A wary face? Or shall you tell me now  
  
He ought to stay a while and nurse a fiend  
  
As if a child foundling in the woods?!  
  
Qot: Dear Bantelhopp-- but stay! There comes a man!  
  
The two chimerae tucked themselves in the dark shadow to the side of Radar's office, peeking out quietly to the laden figure who trundled across the compound. Turning their little faces to one another, they puckered their faces in consternation.  
  
Qot: See, friend? Why shouldst thou place more blame  
  
On our young Radar's friend, so much beloved,  
  
For what has come to him by chance alone,  
  
Than on that Burns who prowls the camp at night  
  
With more design, and on a fouler hunt  
  
For his intention by't? What would you have?  
  
Ban: Why, that we wake him!  
  
Qot: Thus, in troth, I thought;  
  
But would you have him dead? What of Man Burns?  
  
My whole inside's in oils at his passing!  
  
You move your mouth; I know you mean to say  
  
That Dead Man Henry makes a keener threat.  
  
And that to wake our ward will keep him safe.  
  
Fair Iowa, I'd thought, we had decided as the place,  
  
And once the war's out of his mind, the time,  
  
For such a move.  
  
Ban: You argue points, but mine,  
  
My friend, not yours. Speak clear. By troth, you seem  
  
Aheld of 'pinion vastly off from mine.  
  
I say, indeed, to wake him, let him see,  
  
And show him to protect himself as we  
  
Cannot. To my speech said, say what you shall.  
  
Qot: A simple speech you ask; that shall I give.  
  
I find That Burns a greater risk to him awake  
  
Than Blake to him asleep. Your 'Corpse' is not  
  
Yet dead, some life yet lingers in him still,  
  
Life, and if not life, then love, at least,  
  
Mayhaps of greater import. Burns has got  
  
Not the least of these two, whichsoever  
  
You choose to be the conquered of the match.  
  
And 'tis a sour thing.  
  
Ban: Sweet Qotenmatch,  
  
Your words are well with me, but I will nay  
  
Be moved from my desired end. I am  
  
Convince'd that to wake him's right, and I  
  
Am just as much his guardian as thou;  
  
My vote shan't be ignored. But nay shall thine:  
  
Know with me, the Cutters Hunnicutt  
  
And Pierce, goodfellows both, in both our books,  
  
Will keep our young ward safe from all you fear,  
  
While he will then afford himself the safety  
  
Which I desire for him -- from Blake, I mean.  
  
Qot: Tis true, we must have shares in our ward's life.  
  
These words of yours find purchase in my heart.  
  
But hark! He needs us now, tonight. Let's go  
  
To him, and when we've thought it out complete,  
  
Our plan we'll put in place. Come, Bantelhopp!  
  
Ban: I come.  
  
~ 


	19. Chapter 24: Frankie The Vampire Slayer?

Margaret startled slightly as a rapid, familiar little knock came upon the front door of her tent. She lay over her cot, an out-of-date army manual in her hands, staring at its words but not actually reading in any significant way other than to let the words stream through her mind. When she thought about Pierce's accusation, she fumed quietly, but didn't quite boil over. She knew, after all, that there was some truth in it, and over the course of her sulk her thoughts turned less and less to Hawkeye's insult and more and more to the possibilities of being able to comfort the afflicted Colonel in her own very special way.  
  
The knock came again, even more frantic. She grimaced. "Go away, Frank."  
  
The major barged in at the sound of her voice, paying no attention to what she'd said. She sighed and twisted her back to look back and rebuke him for his rudeness, but when she caught sight of him she jumped fully out of bed in surprise, pulling her bedgown close around her. "Frank! What the hell do you think you're doing?!"  
  
Burns' lip twitched, he straightened his back with a great air of self-importance which didn't at all match his little whiny voice as he tried to sound prepared and in control, when in fact he appeared as one who'd just soiled his undergarments.  
  
"Well, Margaret." He began, "If none of those nincompoops are going to take any steps for our safety, it looks like I'm going to have to."  
  
He ran over to her, wrapping his arms around her tightly. "Oh, Margaret... hold me!"  
  
She stood still and rigid. "Frank. Your cross is poking me." He chided. He had, in fact, found the large cross that Father Mulcahy mounted in the Mess Tent on Sundays, and found some rope to attach the thing around his neck. It spanned the length of his torso and was about as wide as his shoulders. She wrinkled her nose, "And that smell--- you reek, Frank." She continued, her tone even and low as she gave an incredulous look to the amount of garlic Frank had draped around himself.  
  
"Margaret! I'm just trying to protect us! Who knows how long it'll be before that vampire gets through with Pierce and Hunnicutt and all of those people, and comes after us? They all at least deserve to die. But we--- we're real and decent citizens of the United States! We can't die here in Korea!"  
  
"Stop sniveling, Frank," she retorted, thrusting him away from her bodily. "Didn't you hear what Colonel Blake said? Those things don't have any real effect on him." She walked over to her vanity mirror and made her hair look presentable, shaking her head at the pitifully laden form of Major Burns in the mirror.  
  
He approached, but kept a few feet of distance between them. "And what do you expect one of /them/ to say, Margaret? You really think he'd tell us what we could do to stop him?"  
  
"One of 'them,' Frank? Just how many vampires do you know?"  
  
"Welll... none, Margaret, but I'll bet if I did they'd be just the kind to do something like that. But that's not all--" He chuckled eagerly, "You'll love this part, Margaret. You'd better sit down. I don't want you to be to awed by my industrious nature!"  
  
She stared at him coolly, and, when she saw that he was serious, sighed and took a seat at her vanity. "I'm sitting, Frank."  
  
At which, Frank, oblivious to her displeasure, reached around and pulled from the back of his belt what appeared to Margaret to be a crudely broken and splintered chair leg. Margaret stared at it for a moment, her forehead knit up in confusion. Then her eyebrows lifted and her mouth gaped open as she realized what Frank had created.  
  
"Oh, Frank!" she huffed, standing up, her hair whipping around into her face with the abruptness of the motion. "You wouldn't!"  
  
"You bet I would, Buster," Frank spitted, admiring his work and rocking back and forth on his feet, obviously pleased with himself. "Just the next chance I get. You won't see Frank Marion Burns getting drained dry by some vampire, no sirree!" He squinted at Margaret's shocked expression, and seemed to note her displeasure with him for the first time. "But... you can't be on /his/ side, Margaret? Can you?" He whimpered, almost dropping his stake as his powerfully poised arm fell like a limp noodle to his side.  
  
Margaret was on the verge of telling Frank just where he could stick that bit of wood. But she stopped herself. Instead, she bit her lip a moment, then put on her charming face and went forward to put her arms around Frank's neck. "Oh, Frank," she repeated, in quite a different tone. "That's not what I meant at all. I only was surprised because there doesn't seem to be any man on this base who'll stand up to that monster. But I should have had more faith in you, my big, strong man."  
  
Frank giggled. "You got that right, Margaret."  
  
"Now, you've got to be smart about this. Why don't you leave that--" her hands ran down his back, and she was surprised to find three more matching items in the back of his belt. "Those, rather," she smiled winsomely at him. "Why don't you leave those here, for now, and when the right moment comes we'll know where to find them. Hm?"  
  
"Oh, Margaret... you should be a General!"  
  
"I bet you'll beat me to it, Tiger." She growled playfully. "Now, why don't you take the rest of those out of your pants?"  
  
She gripped the handle of one of them and began pulling it from its place. As she did so, Frank's eyes widened, and he let out a high-pitched shriek.  
  
"Frank!" exclaimed Margaret, "What's wrong?"  
  
"Ooh!" he cried. "Splinter!"  
  
~ 


	20. Chapter 25: A Long Night Gets Longer in...

"I don' know..." Radar murmured, his little frame curled up in bed, his back pressing against the wall, his arms clutching a bundle of blanket to approximate at least one of his missing companions. Sidney, his befuddled search for the missing items over, sat on the floor next to the cot, just about eye-level, and cross-legged.  
  
"I know it can be hard to put into words, Radar. And it doesn't even have to. Sometimes it's best to let an emotion pass like the enigma that it is. But feel it, and accept it, and let it run its course. Cry, or yell, or do what you like. I'm here, okay? I'll listen. And," he let a pregnant pause pass, looking into Radar's scared and timid face, "you know, Henry's here, too... And I'm sure he needs someone to talk to as much as you do, Radar. Think about it. Okay?"  
  
Radar nodded silently, and Sidney pushed himself up onto his feet. "Sleep well, Radar," he stated, and headed for the door.  
  
When he opened it, he took a step back in surprise.  
  
Radar's glasses and teddy bear were there right on the threshold of the tent. "Hey, Radar," Sidney called back, and leaned down to get them.  
  
As he did so, and before Radar could reply, a young private rushed into Radar's office, nearly knocking Sidney over. The private ran to the PA system.  
  
"Oof! Pardon me..." Sidney excused the boy, "Hey, Radar, look what I found--"  
  
"Attention all personnel!" the private shouted, "Sorry guys, hate to cut the party short, but there are choppers, incoming! Seems even the North Koreans wanted to throw a welcome-back bash for our very own Henry Blake!"  
  
It was only when Radar held his bear again firmly under his arm that he heard the choppers coming.  
  
~ 


	21. Chapter 25 and a Half: A Long Night Gets...

Henry paced the floor of the examination room. The others had taken up various seated positions, and were waiting patiently for him to get his thoughts together.  
  
"It's just really, really hard to describe, guys. It was like, it was dark, and then I came to, and I could see there were people there, but no matter what I did, I couldn't move. Couldn't even close my eyes." He sighed, "I mean, we've all read up on paralysis, the descriptions from survivors of paralyzing accidents and such, but... I don't think I've ever been so terrified in my life." He shook his head, then smiled, and tried to lighten the mood a bit, "Then there was the plank of wood sticking out of my chest, but who hasn't woken up like that every once in a while, hm?"  
  
The congregated chuckled and broke the solemn silence. It was no longer a simple chortle to help relieve tension. The crew really seemed to be getting used to the idea with their usual adaptiveness, and they quickly fell back into their normal modes.  
  
"So what happened next, Henry?" B.J. urged, "How'd you get all the way back here form the evac?"  
  
"Well it was really the oddest---"  
  
"Attention, all personnel!" the announcement began, and the doctors, the priest and the corpsman all looked up to the ceiling almost simultaneously.  
  
"Looks like storytime'll have to wait, Hunnicutt." Potter stated after the announcement had ended. "Pierce, can you see Blake back to the VIP tent before coming to scrub up?" He asked, and, without waiting for an answer, began to head for the door.  
  
Despite himself, Henry's animosity rose to unwarranted levels toward the older man. The fury he'd felt in the tent and suppressed returned and was redoubled. "Now wait just a minute, Colonel!" he protested. "I might be dead, but I'm still a doctor. There are going to be boys coming off of those choppers, and one more pair of hands might help save a life!"  
  
His piece said, Henry seemed to calm down. Mulcahy had quickly moved himself to a spot between the old and new COs, and this had probably helped quite a bit.  
  
Potter frowned, unable to argue against saving lives. "You think you can control yourself in there?"  
  
Henry settled back and mirrored the gesture. Could he? He recalled the thoughts that had flooded his mind on the way back to the camp, and became concerned. All eyes were on him.  
  
He suddenly smiled. "Colonel, I think I might have an idea."  
  
~ 


	22. Chapter 26: Henry v Helios

"Great Grandma Moses!" cried Potter, "What a waft I just got!" his nose wrinkled, his surgical mask shifting slightly over his face. "What in the name of Caesar's Ghost /is/ that?"  
  
"Scalpel," Hawkeye requested, and was duly handed the required equipment, "Either the army decided to send us something viler than our normal daily allotment of yuck, and Igor's trying desperate measures to keep himself from being strung up by an angry mob," he answered, "Or Frank's trying to tell you something, Henry."  
  
Henry looked up briefly from his work, and peered at Frank, whose surgical gown was bundled up around the cloves of garlic he'd draped himself with. At least Margaret had convinced him to remove the cross. "Oh? And what would that be, Frank?"  
  
Frank whimpered softly. Hawkeye shouted, "Speak up, Frank, don't be shy, we're all friends here. We won't judge."  
  
Margaret maneuvered herself to a position of assistance across a table from Colonel Blake. She looked down at his hands as they seemed to fly easily and skillfully through the patient, performing more competent and efficient surgery than she'd ever seen from him before without his seeming to put much more effort into it. She was slightly awed as she watched him close.  
  
Henry leaned over the patient, and caught the scent of garlic emanating from the nearby source of the head nurse. The scent had permeated her down to her undergarments during her cajoling Frank Burns out of his collection of stakes. He glanced up, "Et tu, Margaret?" and grinned a little bit.  
  
Her knees nearly turned to jelly. She didn't reply.  
  
"Alright, he's done," Henry called out to the corpsmen who brabbed up the litter from the table. "Gloves," he added, and the somewhat humbled Major Houlihan rushed to glove him.  
  
"Somebody tell me why Uncle Sam ever decided to let this guy go." Commented B.J., impressed.  
  
"Let me know, too, while you're at it," agreed Potter, "He's running circles around these kids."  
  
"Aw, Colonel," cracked Hawkeye, "give the boys a break. They've had a rough day. This one's been out collecting scrap metal for the cause."  
  
Henry, seeming restless, relieved the nurse across from Hawkeye and started giving him a hand. "I do what I can, Colonel," he replied, unable to help sounding flattered at all the compliments. He was still getting used to walking around the O.R. with an IV drip attached to his arm, but he felt completely at ease, or, at least, as at ease as he'd ever felt in surgery, quite sated and not afraid to experiment a bit with the supernatural speed he'd suddenly found himself with tonight. Soon another patient was brought in and he returned his full attention to his table and the operation. "Hoo-boy. This kid's a wreck." He murmured sadly, and got directly to work.  
  
Henry moved steadily along the boy's body, mending each piece down the line and stitching his insides together into an exemplary model of a human anatomy undisturbed by the nastier effects of war. But there was a lot of damage. He had to rummage a bit to get all the shrapnel out. The comments in the O.R. died down as everyone was absorbed in work. Labor omnia vicit.  
  
Henry's shoulders were hunched, his eyes squinting down into the mess he was slowly putting back into order. In between the low murmurs of directions from doctors to nurses and the patter and clink of instruments hitting surgical gloves, surgical trays, and each other, someone yawned. It was hard to say who, as all mouths were covered by masks.  
  
Henry looked up from the work to stretch his neck from side to side. His eyes locked on the row of plastic tarp windowpanes that lined the wall. Through them he saw the beautiful hills of Korea beginning to be faintly silhouetted in the grey of incipient dawn.  
  
His heart leapt in a pang of instinctual fear. The blood flowed to his extremities; his fingers shook with nerve and began to course through the remaining work with that remarkable speed he'd already demonstrated. He forced himself to look down at the boy below him, and to give the operation his full attention.  
  
"Doctor..?" Margaret murmured quietly, Henry's every motion dazzling to her eyes, and the twitch of his hands and increase in speed not lost on her.  
  
"Yo..." he mumbled hastily.  
  
"Are you alright, sir?"  
  
"Not for a while, now, Major. Mind if we chit-chat another time? This kid's dying for my attention, if you know what I mean."  
  
"Of course, sir." Margaret, subdued, looked back down to Henry's hands and prepared herself to continue to assist.  
  
Time passed. Henry was keenly aware of it, and was aware, despite his not looking, of the ever-steepening shade of grey the horizon was becoming.  
  
"Suction, there..." he uttered lowly, "Metz..." he held out a hand to receive the instrument, and as he did, he caught the first sight of light pink seeping into the cracks between the rocky hills. The scissors fell from his shaking hand and clattered to the floor.  
  
Hawkeye looked up, perhaps with a jibe ready to let loose. Instead he cried out, "Christ, Henry!"  
  
"Come off it, Pierce," Henry's voice quivered slightly, "Margaret, get me another pair of scissors, and be quick about it!"  
  
Margaret looked up to him and let out a shriek of fear. Henry's face was covered in streaks of red blood-sweat that was quickly soaking up into his facemask. Margaret stumbled back, but managed to keep enough of herself about her to find another instrument and get back in place, handing it to him.  
  
Hawkeye's attention turned from the blood-soaked face of the Lieutenant Colonel to the windows, and the now-orangey hue of the air outside. "Henry, get out of here!" he yelled urgently.  
  
"I'm almost done, Pierce! God damn it, let me finish this!" Henry yelled. He leaned down intently into the work, and a few drops of dripping blood from his face, which Margaret nor any other nurse had the wherewithal to mop up, dripped into the open wounds of the prone soldier.  
  
Henry only cursed for a few seconds; that is to say, up until the point where he noticed the young man's wounds beginning to knit of themselves where the blood fell. With this added bit of help, it was mere seconds before the operation was completed in a flurry of motion from Henry and the subsequent draining of the remaining blood from the IV unit.  
  
Henry stood upright from the work just in time to catch the first ray of sunlight peeking over the hills square in the face.  
  
~ 


	23. Chapter 27: Good Morning Good Night

Father Mulcahy carefully bussed the tray of orange juices in through post- op, the least busy entryway to the O.R. at times like these. He patiently turned around to shove open the swinging door with his back and shoulder, and was halfway in before he noticed, through his own cloudy ponderings, that the noise in the room was not the normal panic of the crowded operating room. As he turned to face the scene, the tray of glasses dropped from his hands. Nobody noticed.  
  
The beast was reared back, its deformed, clawed hands crudely stretching the surgical gloves as it reached up to cover its face from the sun streaming in the window. It let out the most frightful shrieking that seemed to resonate through the room and cause every bit of glass and metal to shiver.  
  
Everybody in the room with senses less attuned to the reality of the situation simply saw Henry reel back with the pain of the sunlight he caught in the face and yell out some pained-sounded and confused Henry- isms. Not that that wasn't a frightening enough sight; it wasn't everyday a good friend would be wounded so seriously by such a simple thing as the light of the sun.  
  
Henry, meantime, bolted across the room towards the door, knocking over the I.V. unit that had sometime been attached to him as the creature inside decided that it had had enough of this being fried, and took charge. It was this creature, no doubt, that Father Mulcahy saw... charging... at him. Right now. Klinger strode in behind him with a second tray of orange juices, only for the second tray to end up accompanying the first. "Colonel!" he called out. Henry, needless to say, didn't reply.  
  
"Help me catch him, Klinger!" Mulcahy shouted, and lowered his head and raised his fists to try to tackle the fleeing Brujah. Klinger, uncertain as to what was going on, followed suit.  
  
Not that any of this did much in the way of halting Henry's pace. He slammed through the Father and Corpsman. Klinger flew to one side, batted away by a potent swipe from the Colonel. Mulcahy, on the other hand, through boxing skill or divine intervention, got a hold of the vampire. Instead of holding him there, however, he found himself lifted off the ground and borne along with incredible ease down the central aisle of the post-op ward.  
  
"Take its life... its unholy life..." murmured the Voice.  
  
Mulcahy's brow furrowed, and, inspired, he flipped his body to catch his foot on the metal frame of one of the empty post-op beds. As he felt his body pulled taut between the unstoppable force of the vampire and the aforementioned immovable object, he lowered his head toward the blood-and- fire scented skin of the beast and, silently reciting a prayer, took a breath, seeming almost to replicate the vampiric process. Taking life. Or, unlife, as it may be.  
  
Henry, shocked at this new kind of pain, weakened, and, instead of tearing Father Mulcahy in two, swerved his path and fell toppling onto the post-op bed.  
  
Somewhat surprised, himself, that it had worked, Father Mulcahy wasn't quite sure what to do next, so he sprawled on top of the writhing and howling Henry and pummeled him harshly until backups arrived with sedatives, restraints, and a fireblanket to stop any further damage from being inflicted on Henry by the sunlight that in a few minutes would begin to flood the post-op.  
  
Henry fell still, still as death, and Mulcahy disentangled himself from the monster.  
  
Later, anyone walking by the bed on which the blanket-covered shape lay would see an odd sign attached to the clipboard on the bedframe. It was something like an equal-armed cross with a crescent moon attached. Although not quite sure what it meant, the nurses on duty that morning got the impression that they should leave the bed alone.  
  
The casualties came and went with no further incident. Thanks to the help of the slightly modified Henry Blake, the rest of the crew was done with their efforts only a half-hour or so after dawn arrived.  
  
Potter, B.J., and Hawkeye made a trip past the form of the sleeping Colonel on their way out. They paused at the foot of the bed and peered at the symbol there.  
  
"Doesn't look like your handwriting, Beej," mumbled Hawkeye.  
  
"Nope. I don't do Hieroglyphs. Colonel?"  
  
"I have no idea, but I'd wager I know someone who does."  
  
"Father Mulcahy?" B.J. asked. Hawkeye leaned on the foot of the bed and seemed to be dozing off.  
  
Colonel Potter touched his nose. "I figure I'd better have a talk with him." He yawned. "But I think that Blake here's got the right idea for now. Though we ought to move him to the VIP tent."  
  
He stretched his back wearily, "Now, to figure out how."  
  
"Oh, come on, Colonel. We're a M*A*S*H unit. We specialize in death. How do we cart dead folks around?" rambled Pierce, his tired tongue marking no boundaries as to acceptable or respectful words.  
  
Potter nodded. "Yeah." He uttered resignedly. "Give the man a cigar. Or a pillow. In fact, skip the cigar, and get that man in bed right now, or I might have to order up two coffins." He shook his head at the somewhat ridiculous situation, and the three moved on their bleary way to the other end of post-op.  
  
"Colonel?" quieried Pierce.  
  
"Pierce?"  
  
"Since when did we add another hundred meters to this ward?"  
  
"I don't know, Pierce. I don't know."  
  
~ 


	24. Chapter 28: A Hunter's Lot is Not a Hap...

Potter made a quick stop by his office before heading home to sign whatever Radar had presented as necessary since the night before.  
  
On one corner of the desk was a certificate of death, marked with a little question mark on the top left corner, and typed out with Lt. Col. Henry Blake's information. Looking closely, Potter could spot where a few tears had been hastily wiped away before they could make too much of a mess of the form. Potter shook his head, and slipped the piece of paper into his desk drawer. He would have thrown it away, but he somehow couldn't. The heart and soul that Radar had put into doing the only thing he readily knew how for the Colonel, though the product was rather morbid, was touching.  
  
In any event, the Colonel didn't think the form was necessary. After all, the Army already thought that Blake was dead. If anything, they needed to figure out how to correct this assumption.  
  
Potter stacked the piles of papers at cross-angles and lifted them, too tired to think of the proper military route of reporting a reportedly dead officer to have returned and reported himself to be dead, as well, though alive to all tests except specifically medical ones. Potter sighed and shuffled out of his office, setting the stacks of papers on Radar's desk.  
  
He looked up and smiled at the Company clerk. Radar slept with his teddy bear clutched in a firm hug, his eyes red and a little bit swollen, and his glasses hanging from a peg above the bed, almost seeming to look down at him.  
  
Potter made a concerted effort to be quiet as he passed out of the tent. In the now bright and cheery morning he saw some corpsmen bearing a closed coffin out of the post-op, as ordered. They set it down, and Potter shook his head in disbelief.  
  
Military efficiency. Couldn't get a group of guys to do a simple thing like put a man in a coffin and carry him from post-op to the VIP tent in one trip. Potter bet that the resourceful individuals of the 4077th had found a group of people to get the coffin from the supply tent and take it to the door of post-op, another to bring it inside, another to put the Colonel in it, another to bring the coffin back outside here, and now a fifth was going to come by and actually bear the coffin to the assigned location.  
  
Potter never ceased to be amazed by these processes.  
  
He was about to turn to head to his tent when he saw Father Mulcahy slip out of post-op and edge over to the coffin. His face grew stern, and he stopped to watch.  
  
Father Mulcahy, for his part, felt drawn toward the coffin's edge. He was used to being able to do something for the blessed dead. But Henry fell, sadly, into neither of these categories. The priest fidgeted, and turned to face the coffin, lowering himself into a crouch that was, perhaps unconsciously, also a genuflection. Out of habit, he settled his elbows on the flat surface before him, laced his fingers, and fell into murmuring a formulaic prayer as he let his thoughts wander.  
  
The full sunlight warmed and soothed his black-clad, sore, and aching back. A section of the paternoster became highly aspirated as the padre relaxed a bit and exhaled heavily through the prayers.  
  
It would be quite simple, of course, to open the lid of the coffin. In no less than a few minutes, from what he could tell of the creature's reaction in the O.R., the demon would be dead, and Henry's body would be able to fall to its rightful rest.  
  
But, for crying out loud, it certainly seemed to be Henry Blake, and no other! The beast seemed to rear up from time to time, but in between, it was hard to deny that Blake had indeed been spared from death. And if that was so, wouldn't it be the right thing to do to allow him to hold on to life while he can?  
  
Even if it meant giving a home to a creature of pure evil intent?  
  
The question became, more or less, did Father Mulcahy believe that Henry Blake had the power to resist evil, to be stalwart and steadfast, and to hold power over the beast within him?  
  
Mulcahy shook his head in an inward answer to this very question. Since when was Henry Blake, after all, in control of anything, least of all himself? In Chaplain school he'd been told to expect a higher threshold of tolerance for sins and transgressions than in a peaceful, non-threatening situation, but, given all in all, Pierce, McIntyre, and Blake had had it pretty good compared to most of the poor souls thrown into this mess, yet seemed to do enough sinning for an entire squadron! No. Mulcahy wouldn't trust a foul demon to the care of any of them.  
  
Once Blake develops a taste for blood, Mulcahy thought dourly, he'll indulge in it as ever he indulged in booze and women.  
  
He set his jaw and gripped nervously at the coffin lid's edge with his fingers. He tilted his head back to look up at the bright blue heavens. In his mind's eye, he recalled watching Henry Blake's helicopter bear him off. Yes. Henry was gone.  
  
"Padre," called a familiar voice, and Mulcahy twitched slightly, lowering his head and then slowly turning around, feeling slightly guilty despite all his reasoning.  
  
Potter stood before him, frowning slightly. "We told him to get out of there. He wouldn't, not until he was sure that that boy was going to be alright. It was doubtful whether the kid was going to live or die. According to what I've heard, I don't know if I'd have been able to save him. I don't know if Pierce and Hunnicutt together could have done it, especially with all the other casualties coming in. Henry Blake risked his life to save that boy."  
  
His voice conveyed no sense of admonition, and was soft and gentle. "I just thought you'd want to know."  
  
Mulcahy nodded, and Potter nodded in reply before turning and heading to his tent.  
  
After a few minutes, Mulcahy stood and wandered back to his own quarters.  
  
~ 


	25. Chapters 28 to 31: Hail, Miles Glamouro...

Radar woke up around nine or ten that morning, having slept straight through since three or four that morning, and having dreamt dreams that brought a smile creeping across his face as he cuddled down in his cot and slowly opened his eyes. The world around him glowed bright emerald green with the shining of the glorious sun, and he felt an indescribable need to tie somebody's bootlaces together. Grinning, he giggled lowly at the thought, and leaned back half-out of bed, tying his own laces together for the pure glee it inspired. The sadnesses of the past night were passed, washed over by the glow of the world he seemed to see through a new pair of eyes. He put his hands on the ground and tumbled backward out of bed, rolling a backward somersault on the floor of the office until he righted himself. The world which he had left behind in blurred dull darkness was now sparkling green like the tender shoots of spring, and he patted over the floor with his bare feet to look out the window.  
  
"Dear Bantelhopp, by troth, I think it worked!" cried Qotenmatch from his perch among the sworls of the shimmering green army blanket.  
  
Radar's brow furrowed a little bit, but only a little. He felt too good this morning to frown too much. He turned around, and, spotting the little dragon perched above his bed, and his teddy bear tilting its head to look at him, was hardly surprised. Now that he saw them, he felt that they were familiar to him, so he simply shuffled back over to his cot and sat back down, "Hi, guys... I'm Walter... but everyone---"  
  
"Calls you Radar," chirruped the bird-headed lizard critter, and it winked.  
  
"We know, Radar. We're your friends."  
  
"I think I knew that, too..." Radar mused to himself as he held out his hand to Bantelhopp, letting the little chimera climb onto his hand and then onto his head.  
  
"Do you understand, then?" Qotenmatch piped quietly from the blankets.  
  
"Yeah," Radar replied casually as he stood again, the world coming into a sharper focus of brilliant hues of green as the chimerical eyeglasses settled into place. He could have sworn that the main color around here used to be olive drab, but he wasn't about to complain about the switch to verdant jades and emeralds. His statement of understanding wasn't a complete lie. He felt that something had happened, and he felt that on some level he understood the nature of the change. Was it his fault if that level wasn't, perhaps, the topmost one? He'd catch on eventually.  
  
Radar peeked into a mirror, and peered oddly at the long, white, ovine ears he'd developed somehow or another. "I could'a sworn these were shorter, yesterday," he murmured. The chimerae giggled in approbation.  
  
With his 'glasses' perched on his head, and his bear carefully tucked under an arm, Radar meandered out into the sunshine, his feet bare, and his body similarly devoid of clothing except for his shorts. It would have been a queer sight, if anyone at all had been around to see him. But the camp was drenched in much-needed sleep, and even the camp mutts seemed drowsy. Radar chased good-naturedly after them a bit, then let them return to their sleep with a scratch behind their ears.  
  
Seeming not to notice the sharp edges of rocks against his bare feet, Radar slipped off of the compound and scampered down the sun-splattered hillside, finally sliding down to his side and lounging in the grass next to the comely Korean creek. He set Qotenmatch down next to his head, and rested Bantelhopp on his chest as it slowly rose and fell.  
  
His head turned to the side as he looked toward the glistening of the running water. He smiled widely. "Henry always liked to take me fishing with him, here," he informed his two companions. Of course, Henry had never really liked to do anything of the sort. If Radar ever came along, it was to hold the net or get the worms ready, and the prospect of killing the worms, much less the fish, had always made him somewhat queasy. But he looked over the pleasant spot and nearly convinced himself that what he had said was true.  
  
The chimerae shared an awkward silence that sparked Radar's curiosity. "What's wrong with Colonel Blake?" he queried, nearly defensively, but still in earnest. "Do you know?" He craned his neck and peered at Bantlehopp.  
  
"My dear ward Walter, there shall never be Aught wrong with Henry Blake that he alone Did not inflict upon himself. Be, then All unafraid, as in of yore, when Blake Dwelt yet among you living folk; but mark, And if he seems to fall from what you know To be Good Order in the Way of Things, Take care to rend your love for him. And more, And most importantly of all, take care That ne'er taste thou henceforward of his blood!"  
  
~  
  
It was the middle of the afternoon before anyone else in the camp began to stir from their various slumbers, with the exceptions of the backup-backup nursing staff on duty and Major Frank Burns, who had insisted on being at lunch on time, and who had yelled at Igor for not having the chow ready by the time he got there. Igor promptly rolled over and went back to sleep.  
  
Frank, fuming slightly, went to the Officer's Club to at least get some pretzels and a Shirley Temple. As he approached the door, his jaw drooped a bit and he lifted a hand to shield his eyes from the cacophany of glittering rainbows created by an artfully crafted arch of empty Grape Nehi bottles. He furrowed up his brow. "What the devil...?" he mused, his voice's pitch rising in confusion.  
  
The door of the officer's club was flung open, and Frank dropped to the ground, squirming away and shielding his head from the pelting of glass shards-- which didn't come. The bartender idly swept a bit of dirt out the front door, and gave Major Burns a funny look. "Good morning, Major," he greeted genially.  
  
Frank looked up, then, trying to preserve his dignity, got to his feet and dusted himself off. "Uhh... uhh... as you were!" he barked, and ran off towards the main office.  
  
The bartender looked up, and, surprised by the arch, let out a few exclamations of said surprise and dropped back into the club, the door swinging shut behind him. A few minutes later, he came around the side from the back entrance to stare at the creation.  
  
Frank scurried into Colonel Potter's office with a panicked look on his face. "Colonel! I just got here from the Officers'--- Club---- And." His voice trailed off as he sniffed the air, which was permeated by a stringent odor of chemical grape.  
  
Frank's eyes grew wide as they settled on Colonel Potter, who sat behind his desk in his bathrobe and a state of shock. He was still dripping, and his white hair had been dyed a faint purple by the blast of grape soda he'd gotten out of the showerhead that afternoon.  
  
"Colonel?" Frank whimpered.  
  
"Frank." Potter replied flatly.  
  
"That-- that little!"  
  
Potter closed his eyes, not really wanting to deal with the court martial case Frank was obviously cooking up. "Go find him, Frank. Don't be a pain in the buns. Just find him and get him in here."  
  
~  
  
"Uh-oh," peeped Bantlehopp into Radar's ear.  
  
"What, Choppers?" Radar asked.  
  
"Nope. The Colonel. The Potter Colonel. He found your game none too amusing. O! He'll call you out, and send the Burns for you! Best go to him, but not by Compound-way, Through which Frank Burns will ravage 'til he's calmed."  
  
"Righty-o," Radar readily agreed, and hopped up from the grass in which he'd been sunbathing. "Come on, Qotenmatch!"  
  
"I come!" cried the bear as he was lifted up from the ground. "Hello, bug." He added, to the little spider which had crawled onto its fur.  
  
Radar ran back to camp at full tilt, and crept up to the back of the Colonel's tent, listening in until Frank had left, at which point he leapt up and entered his room through the front door. He was about to head through into the Colonel's office, but he thought better of it, instead tittering slightly as he put Bantlehopp back on his perch, dusting off Qotenmatch, and slipping back into his deserted bed.  
  
Inside, Colonel Potter changed into a pair of fresh clothes and dried off his purpled hair. Then, looking down to the piles of papers on his desk, he looked around for the daily report to sign. His brow furrowed and he shifted around some of the papers. It wasn't anywhere to be found.  
  
"Hmm." He murmured, and went out to Radar's office to see if they hadn't been left on the desk out there. Imagine his surprise to find Radar, 'asleep' in bed, trying to hide a slew of stifled giggles as he listened to Potter coming into the room, getting a play-by-play from Ban & Qot in iambic pentameter.  
  
"Radar." Potter stated darkly.  
  
"Mmm... mom, 'sat you?" murmured Radar.  
  
Potter's voice grew harsher, "Corporal O'Reilly!"  
  
Radar opened his eyes and reached out to gently place Bantelhopp on his head. "Yes, sir, Colonel, sir?" he feigned a yawn.  
  
Potter rocked back and forth on his heels. "What have you been doing with yourself today, Corporal?"  
  
"Me? Oh, sleeping, sir."  
  
"Then how come I didn't see you in bed when I came in this morning?"  
  
"Maybe you need to get your glasses checked?"  
  
"Corporal..."  
  
"I was having a dream I was playing hide and seek. Maybe that's why you couldn't see me. If you'd just called "All Free," I'd have shown up, I bet."  
  
"Horse hockey!"  
  
"Oh, I don't know that game, Colonel."  
  
"Out of bed, Soldier."  
  
"I can't get out of bed, sir."  
  
"Why in the name of Marco Blessed Polo not?"  
  
"My feet'll get cold. Somebody tied my bootlaces together."  
  
Potter leaned over and looked at the boots.  
  
"And who did that, Radar?"  
  
"I don't know, sir. I was asleep."  
  
"No you weren't, Radar," Potter warned.  
  
"I was hiding?"  
  
Potter shook his head. "And where are the daily reports for me to sign, Corporal?"  
  
"Um. They're hiding?  
  
"Radar!"  
  
"Oh! The daily reports! I had a little problem with them, sir." Radar rolled out of bed in a smooth and agile motion that took Colonel Pooter a bit aback.  
  
"What was that, Radar?"  
  
"Oh, I wasn't sure what I was supposed to say about Colonel Blake, that's all. I spent all morning on the phone with Sparky trying to figure it out."  
  
"I thought you were asleep, Corporal. Dreaming of playing hide-and- seek."  
  
"Oh, I must have dreamed it while I was awake, sir."  
  
Potter sighed. "Right. Get on those forms, Posty Hasty."  
  
"Right, sir."  
  
~ 


	26. Chapter 32: It Never Fails!

"I don't know, Sherman... I think it's a good look for you."  
  
Hawkeye and B.J. were busy cracking up. They'd been so engaged in a game of cards with Sidney that they didn't notice the new color of their CO's hair until he pointed it out, at which point, of course, it became the center of attention.  
  
"Radar? Did that?" howled Hawkeye as he rolled back on his bunk.  
  
"Our Radar?" asked B.J. incredulously.  
  
"Seriously, Sidney," muttered Potter. "It's not like him. And you shoulda heard the pack of excuses he was making this morning. He sounded like-- like...."  
  
The eyes of the three other men converged on Hawkeye, who was convulsing in a paroxysm of laughter on his rumpled blankets. He gasped and wiped the tears from his eyes, quieting down into a series of stifled giggles. "What?" he asked innocently.  
  
Sidney stood up and put on his Psychologist face. "I suppose it's reasonable to think that Radar might be trying to deal with this situation by stealing a page from Hawk's book, as it were."  
  
"Playing pranks to keep from thinking about Henry, you mean?" B.J. asked, the group quieting down a bit.  
  
"Exactly. Last night he seemed to be willing to do anything -- up to and including destroy his office -- to keep his mind off of it."  
  
Potter peered out the window of the Swamp's door, toward the glittering arch of pop bottles outside the OC door. "And what do you think of that?"  
  
The three others stood and circled around the window, staring out at the rather impressive addition to the camp. They simultaneously cringed as a pair of nurses wandered out of the club, and relaxed when the arch held its integrity. The nurses looked up at the structure and grinned, then laughed, seeming cheered by the sight.  
  
"At least he's doing something... constructive?" Sidney hypothesized.  
  
"You call this--" Potter gestured to his bepurpled hair, "constructive, Sidney?"  
  
"More constructive than trying to beat up buildings. Whatever went on inside that head of his last night, I have to say that it has my approval. He's on the right path."  
  
Hawkeye returned to his cot, looking thoughtful.  
  
"You know, guys, as much as I hate to try to cure somebody of me- dom..."  
  
They turned to watch him. "Pierce?" asked Potter.  
  
"Radar really needs help. He won't feel any better until he's accepted what's happened."  
  
"And I suppose you have a plan, to this effect?" asked B.J.  
  
Hawkeye put his finger to his nose. "Of course. What is it that we do best around here?"  
  
"Pull pranks?"  
  
"Aw, well, Radar's already got that part down. What else?"  
  
B.J. shrugged slightly.  
  
"Throw parties."  
  
Potter scrunched up his face. "Pierce.." he groaned.  
  
Hawkeye sat up, his voice suddenly taking on the tone of a pleading child. "Oh, c'mon, Colonel! While the Chinese and the U.N. are busy catching their breath from their last game of dodgeball! I'll get Radar involved in planning it up, and soon we'll all be at the best We're-Sorry- You're-Dead-But-We're-Glad-You're-Back-Anyway,-Henry party that Ouijongbu has ever seen!"  
  
Potter looked doubtful. "Sidney?"  
  
Sidney grinned. "Need me to write out a prescription? I'd go for it. It couldn't hurt, and besides, it's been too long since I've been at a M*A*S*H bash."  
  
"Cute, Sid," smirked B.J.  
  
"Alright then, it's on!" agreed Potter.  
  
"It's on!" cried Hawkeye triumphantly. "A wake for Henry Blake, part two: just when you thought it was safe in South Korea!" 


	27. Chapter 33: Of Monsters and Men

Father Mulcahy awoke in the early afternoon for the seventh or eight time since he'd lain down that morning. The world was slightly smudgy around him, as he didn't have his glasses on, but, as often, he was content to let his vision drift inward in contemplation.  
  
But today he was restless. He knew that he should be tired, that he should sleep, but he couldn't convince his body or his eyelids of this fact. He wheeled around in the cot that, for the first time since he'd arrived at the M*A*S*H 4077th, seemed too small.  
  
He sighed resignedly as he confronted the fading but still glowing glyph that marked the drawer of his desk. The taint stared back at him, and not more than two seconds later he was out of bed.  
  
Mulcahy stared at the floor, away from the glowing mark that brought images to his mind of a clawed beast raking its bloodthirsty talons over his property. "Henry Blake risked his life..." echoed in his head, Potter's voice, the new arrivals having silenced themselves for the moment. "Yes," he nodded silently to the floor as he changed into his bathrobe. Tears had begun to crawl down his face after Potter had told him the story. Not of repentance for his harsh behavior toward him, but rather the vestiges of his grief for Henry Blake renewed; he had no doubts that in life Henry wouldn't hesitate in a life-threatening situation to stick it out no matter the risk to life and limb. That the monster reminded him so much of the Colonel saddened him, maddened him, confused him. If it had been as simple a matter as a monster walking into camp, he'd have had no compunctions about following the directions he'd received from above, and would have ridded the camp of it already. But this... thing was still Henry! How could he kill Henry?  
  
Father Mulcahy stepped out into the sunlight. It was warmer than it had been in a week or two, especially considering how cool the night had gotten, and the light and heat comforted him. He felt slightly ridiculous as he walked across the compound with the same feeling of ease as he used to get taking his sister to a horror film. The scenes at night were full of terrors; the scenes in which the pair of young teens could see the sun they knew, as if by instinct, were sacrosanct, and they loosed their grips on each other's hands.  
  
Father Mulcahy smiled at the thought despite himself, then tilted his head a bit as he approached the shower tent and encountered a strange, metallic-fruitish scent. He sniffed a bit, and the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. He shivered, but, nonetheless curious, moved forward and opened the door.  
  
"Another!" screamed the voice.  
  
On the floor, glowing in the center of a cluster of puddles of purple liquid, was the crescent-moon and cross sigil which had come into his mind to write over the supine Henry Blake.  
  
His arm grew stiff, he gripped the door, his eyes widening and his head tilting back radically at the sight, scent, and sound.  
  
"Another!" he echoed weakly. His forehead knit up in agonizing sorrow. How?! How had he allowed another monster into the camp?! The sunlight, formerly pleasing, turned cold, and his knees grew weak as he identified the scent pervading the tent as that of Grape Nehi.  
  
He steadied himself in the doorway as the situation suddenly came into focus.  
  
"Radar!" he uttered in a wavering, breathy gasp.  
  
"Yes, sir?"  
  
Father Mulcahy wheeled around, having been snuck up on, and seemed about to say something before he got a good look at the young clerk and let out a horrified yelp.  
  
"Hey, it's just me, Father," Radar giggled. "You need somethin'? And, hey, Hawkeye's gonna help me plan a party for the Colonel tonight when he wakes up, I was wonderin' if you could--"  
  
Father Mulcahy wasn't listening. He gaped open-jawed at the creature that bleated at him so horribly. He could hear the words, and almost discern Radar's voice, but it was as much a monsterously distorted version of his voice as the demonic visage of clumps of shaggy fur, a bloodstained maw, and long ridged ram's horns was of the clerk's face. And to top off the horrific vision, a small dragon with the head of a falcon sat on the monster's head looking smug.  
  
Bantelhopp, spotted, widened his little avian eyelids, and chirped, "Radar, duck!"  
  
Radar ducked out of the way as Mulcahy leapt at him, trying to grab him around the shoulders. Instead, Mulcahy caught hold of Bantlehopp's long tail, and ripped him off of his ward's face. Bantlehopp squawked loudly in protest.  
  
"Hey, Father, what're you doing? Give him back!" Radar yelled, and ran to tackle Mulcahy, reaching for the chimera. Mulcahy braced himself for the impact of the ram's horns as he lifted the dragon above his head, out of reach of the shorter Radar. Their bodies met, and in the collision Mulcahy almost lost hold of the creature, but reaffirmed his grip in a tight squeeze which caused the chimera to cry out in pain.  
  
You're trying to hurt him!" Radar cried out as they awkwardly grappled.  
  
"Stop struggling, and I'll stop." Mulcahy stated firmly.  
  
Radar whimpered quietly in fear as he stopped struggling and in pain as Mulcahy deftly twisted his arm up behind his back and held him like that, in a most uncomfortable manner, as he marched him toward Colonel Potter's tent.  
  
~ 


	28. Chapter 34: A Second Look, A Second Sig...

Colonel Potter, Hawkeye and B.J. were in the middle of a little mid- afternoon libation as they chatted over the details of that night's festivities. B.J. was perched on the filing cabinet near the window, Hawkeye's feet were propped up casually on the desk's surface, and Colonel Potter was up pouring another for himself.  
  
Father Mulcahy bursting into the office doors with a tormented- looking Radar held in a wrestling lock and Radar's glasses clutched tightly high in the air in his other hand was about the last thing they were expecting to happen next.  
  
Mulcahy waved the glasses about in the air, causing them to clatter a bit. "Look! Here is the work of Henry Blake!" he declared, his face red with exertion and anger.  
  
Hawkeye looked over his shoulder, hiding his surprise under an innocently confused mask. "What, Henry gave Radar myopia?"  
  
B.J. shook his head, "Can't be. You just left your opia in your other pants. Hm. Henry stunted Radar's growth?"  
  
Hawkeye shrugged. "I always blamed that on the coffee."  
  
Colonel Potter shuffled around the desk. "Down, you two. Father, what's all this about? Let him go, will you?" He reached out for Mulcahy's arm to pry the two apart, but the priest's arm tensened and he jumped back.  
  
"No. I won't. He'll get out of here, and make... make more! More of these things!" he waved the glasses around in the air.  
  
He looked around at the room full of incredulous faces beginning to tint with concern. He twisted Radar's arm up further behind his back until he shrieked. "Don't look at me like that. Don't look at me like I've lost my mind. Can't you see this demon here?" he shoved Radar forward a bit demonstratively. "Don't you see this creature?" he rattled the glasses.  
  
Potter held up his hands in a peaceful gesture. "No, Padre, we don't. But we'll listen, all right? Just stop hurting Radar-- err-- um-- the demon."  
  
Radar gave the Colonel a pained look at being called such a thing, but Potter ignored it for the moment, trying to reason with Mulcahy.  
  
"You won't let him leave?"  
  
"He'll stay right here."  
  
Mulcahy released Radar tentatively, then, having lost his grip, tried to reaffirm it, seeming to change his mind. But Radar was ready, and was already halfway across the room, well out of the priest's grip. He fled, tripping briefly over a chair leg he couldn't quite make out, and took refuge between the two doctors. B.J. hopped down to look at Radar's arm.  
  
"I think it's broken," Radar moaned slightly, wincing at the examination. "Make him give me back Ba--- my glasses."  
  
"Padre..." urged Potter, reaching a hand out for the glasses.  
  
"What? What glasses? What glasses?" Father Mulcahy demanded, jitterily repeating himself.  
  
"Look at your hand, Padre. What do you have there?"  
  
Father Mulcahy looked up toward the dragon--- and his mouth fell open and shut a few times in an attempt to speak. He indeed held Radar's glasses in his clenched fingers. For a second he didn't quite feel as if the hand was his, but somebody else's, and he looked back to Colonel Potter in anguished confusion.  
  
"Now," Potter continued, "look over there... who's over there with Pierce and Hunnicutt?"  
  
Father Mulcahy turned himself, and fell to his knees to see Radar kind of frowning at him from between the two doctors.  
  
"Oh, Lord." He murmured. "Tell me what the truth is."  
  
"The monster will kill them all. Will drain them." The voices promptly replied, and Radar's skin seemed briefly marked with signs and sigils.  
  
Mulcahy's eyes welled up with tears, and when they fell, he saw Radar once more as the others saw him. He handed the 'glasses' to Colonel Potter, who handed them to Hawkeye, who gave them to Radar, who put them on, sneaking a comforting patting stroke across one of the rims.  
  
The chaplain stood up and straightened himself into a dignified posture, wiping the tears from his eyes and flicking them away with something like disdain.  
  
He turned to the Colonel, "Colonel Potter, sir, I believe that Henry has done something to change Radar into... something like him." Mulcahy scrunched his forehead up and frowned. "Sir? What happened to your hair?"  
  
Colonel Potter reached up and touched his hair, and Radar couldn't hold in a giggle. Potter shot him a glance.  
  
"Oh. Yes. I... saw." Mulcahy mumbled, recalling the showers. He strode across to the chair next to Hawkeye, keeping his eyes on the ground and sitting as if weary.  
  
Potter went around behind his desk again and sat down, gesturing to the priest's bathtime ensemble. "Looks like you had the luck not to walk into the same trap. But still, a little practical joke hardly means Radar's a vampire. Besides, Padre, did you get a look at the nice /sunny/ sky today?"  
  
"He's right, Father," B.J. piped up, "Radar's been out and about all morning."  
  
"Well, there's just got to be a connection. First Henry shows back up... and now Radar!"  
  
Hawkeye stood up. "Now Radar what, exactly, Father? Pulls a little stunt? Look, we've all been under a little stress. Disapprove if you want to, it's your job, I suppose, but it doesn't mean there's anything wrong with him."  
  
Mulcahy shook his head. "It's not that. He's... changed. I know it."  
  
Hawkeye was about to disagree more virulently, but Potter lifted a hand. "Hey, fellows, settle down, okay? Maybe we ought to give the Father a little more leeway here. He WAS right about Henry, and none of us believed him then, either. He's obviously got some kind of inside scoop." He looked up a bit, looking a bit uncomfortable with the idea that God might be talking directly to his camp chaplain.  
  
Hawkeye leaned back and looked to B.J., "We've always known he was getting betting tips."  
  
Potter continued, "So, in the name of all the weird hoo-hah that's been going on around here, I think we ought to get it straight from the horse's--"  
  
"Sheep's," interrupted Mulcahy pointedly.  
  
"Mouth," finished Potter forcefully. "Radar? You know what the Father's talking about?"  
  
All looked toward him expectantly. "No! I mean, yes... well... see..."  
  
~ 


	29. Chapter 35: In Which We See that Hawkeye...

Radar wasn't quite sure what it was about Hawkeye that made him want to grin; yes, he'd always known that the Captain was a hoot and a half to be around, and Radar had always admired him for his quickness of wit and quickness of tongue, even to the point of envy. But now the attraction was mildly shifted. Hawkeye's presence made Radar feel warm and slightly giddy. Even as he stood accused by Father Mulcahy of being a demon, he couldn't hold in a giggle every now and again when Hawkeye opened his mouth and uttered a stream of the pure essence of delight. The warm fuzzies were reflected and multiplied by B.J., and so, when he had the chance to move, Radar parked himself between the two to bask in their light and coddle his wounded shoulder. Bantlehoff too seemed comforted in this position, and sprawled out over Radar's head like an iguana on a warm sea-sprayed rock, chirruping quietly as Radar stroked his injured tail.  
  
"Radar, young ward, I warn ye now, look thou  
  
At him, that man, that priest who lately dragged  
  
Us hither and now proceeds to speak against us;  
  
He saw you, he saw me as well, and I  
  
Well fear what he might have in mind for you,  
  
For me, and for our comrade Qotenmatch,  
  
If e'er he has seen him, too. But you,  
  
Now you they ask for your perspective on  
  
These things; speak well, craft well thy Pooka art."  
  
Radar was taken half-by surprise by the question, having been listening more to Bantelhopp than to the conversation. He stammered for a moment, then grinned a tiny grin, "Um, could you repeat the question, sir?"  
  
Potter put his hand firmly on his desk and leaned forward. "Has anything /strange/ happened to you, Corporal?" he demanded roughly.  
  
Radar paused a second, slouched, then bucked himself up, thrusting his little chest out in a humorous show of pride. "Yes. It's all very true, what Father Mulcahy's saying. Colonel Blake's always been like a father to me, and now he's going to be like my father, except a vampire, now."  
  
Hawkeye lifted a hand and opened his mouth to speak. Radar turned to him, "And I'm still breathin' and stuff because Colonel Blake didn't ever kill me, he just vampired me without, but I'll get dead soon, and then I'll be like him.  
  
B.J. was the next to attempt to object. Radar cut in, "And I can go outside in the daytime, of course, because all the vampire stuff only really kicks in after I get dead. Colonel Blake said so."  
  
Potter sat down, his brow furrowed as all the information Radar was giving him sank in. "Rad--"  
  
"Yes, sir, I do think blood is real great stuff to drink, now, too. Why else would I waste perfectly good grape nehi on a practical joke? And I just haven't drunk any yet because... I'm not hungry."  
  
Hawkeye's eyes widened. "My god, he really is sick..." he cracked.  
  
Radar snorted and giggled intensely. He was halfway through his conniption when he felt something press itself into the realm of the warm feeling Hawkeye was emitting. His lips pursed in concern, and Hawkeye's feet came down off of the table almost instinctually at the clerk's gesture, fully expecting Radar's next words to be, "Uh-oh."  
  
But there weren't any choppers coming. Radar looked up and across the room, his eyes moving as if on auto-pilot until they met the cool, unimpressed gaze of Father Mulcahy.  
  
"Radar." Mulcahy's voice came sternly, hitting Radar like a splash of cold water. "Tell us the truth."  
  
The changeling's knees wobbled under the force of the guilt that dropped on him like a ton of bricks. Why was he implicating Henry in something that he hadn't done? Why was he trying to pass himself off as a vampire? Why was he so intent on sowing confusion and mischief everywhere? Didn't he know that that kind of behavior could tear apart a camp like this? Especially with all of this queer stuff going on?  
  
Radar steadied himself on the edge of Colonel Potter's desk, then bent his neck down so nobody could see the tears of guilt welling in his eyes until they slipped down his cheeks.  
  
Mulcahy, feeling his will jostling the monster's nature, became gentler, stepped forward and put one hand on Radar's shoulder. The other hand he raised and gently lifted Radar's chin so that he made eye contact once more. "Tell us the truth, Radar."  
  
~ 


	30. Chapter 36: A Pooka's Lot Isn't Excepti...

Radar cringed as he recalled how he'd found his breath stalling in his lungs, his mouth gaped open half in an attempt to speak and half in an attempt to breathe. The priest's eyes had been locked on his own, and he squirmed, but couldn't pull away. He nearly fainted now, sitting nervously on the edge of his bed, unable to recall what words had been forcibly ripped out of his soul. He set Bantelhopp down on the bed beside him, and rested his face in his hands. He felt cold.  
  
Bantelhopp evidently felt likewise. He curled into a little ball in a spiral of blankets and was still. His banter no longer filled the air; he didn't even tell Radar what the men in the next room were saying, nor did Radar really want to know. He had been sent out of the room. For what? Something.  
  
Qotenmatch, concerned, walked up behind Radar and put a paw in the small of his back. He rumbled in consternation at the sight of the changeling and the other chimera in such states of disrepair.  
  
"My good fellows," he began, "What has happened, now?  
  
Has Corpse Henry made things difficult for us?"  
  
His only reply was a bountiful silence.  
  
"Give voice! What woe is this? Do speak, I pray!" he shouted in panic.  
  
Radar reached around and picked up the small bear, who burrowed his muzzle into the soft fuzz-lined crook of Radar's neck and tickled with his whiskers. Radar smiled. The warmth spreading over his lower jaw diffused the cold, and suddenly there was nothing on earth of the terrifying Father Mulcahy. There was only himself and his Teddy Bear, alone in time and space, warm, and comfortable.  
  
It was only after he had thus regained his wits that he could cry again. Qotenmatch soaked up the tears and told stories of scolding monsters vanquished by hard-working hordes of trickster elephant shrews, and Radar giggled. And it was also only in this somewhat comforted state that he remembered what he had been sent out here to do.  
  
The daily reports. And Colonel Potter reported that he was "serious, this time." Radar left the chimerae on the bed and stumbled over to the desk, where he opened the drawer in which he kept forms of all sorts and began flipping through them. Hm... under W for "What's Going On"? Under C for "Complaints"? Under... Radar shivered slightly. The drawer was freezing cold, and his hands began to numb slightly as he pawed through the sheets of paper there. He finally checked under "D" for "Daily Reports."  
  
"It's always in the last place you look, isn't it?" he commented.  
  
Then he looked under a few more letters, just to prove the theory wrong. He chuckled wanly and blew on his hands. It didn't help. He scrunched up his forehead, and then whistled a little song that his mother always used to sing to him at bedtime. In the background he could hear Qotenmatch, who'd heard the song just as many times, singing along. He whistled onto his poor numbed fingers, and they warmed. He sat down, feeling happier but still somewhat concerned.  
  
He threaded the form through the typewriter; his hands trembled as he set up the carbon paper. His teeth chattered until they ached as the possibilities ran through his head. 'Today the M*A*S*H 4077th was destroyed by enemy fire.' 'Today the M*A*S*H 4077th was destroyed by friendly fire.' 'Today the M*A*S*H 4077th was visited by a troupe of Korean Schoolchildren who put on a production of Hansel and Gretel. Rated 'adverso pollice' by Ouijongbu's toughest film critic, before going back to his tango lesson.'  
  
Mulcahy's voice ran through his head like a freight train, causing his every though to tremble and jump. He could no longer tell exactly what the words were that brought such deep shame and so many tears to his cheeks.  
  
'Outfit,' the first blank in the form requested. 'M*A*S*H 4072nd.' 'M*A*S*H 8063rd.' 'Semiformal.' Radar's hands poised over the keys, confused.  
  
He put his fingers down on the first key he could. Perhaps they were '7i;esa.' Whatever they were, it wasn't the correct codeword to keep a sharp jolt of that 'nails on a chalkboard' feeling to run up his fingers and arms and seem to coagulate in the center of his back. He shrieked, and the chimerae squawked and roared, and he toppled over backward, taking the desk chair with him.  
  
~ 


	31. Chapter 37: What Are We Going To Do Abo...

"Okay," Pierce shook his head as the dazed Radar O'Reilly made his way out of the office. "I /suppose/ that if I can buy Henry being a vampire, I can buy Radar as a fairy."  
  
"But where would you keep him?" questioned B.J.  
  
"This is no joking matter, captains," reminded Father Mulcahy solemnly.  
  
"Sounds like a joking matter to me, Padre," Potter calmly spoke, "literally. After all, sounds like all the boy wants to do is play jokes. Granted, it might make the works around here stick a bit, but what's new?"  
  
"I'm afraid it's more serious than that, sir," Mulcahy looked to the floor as he spoke. When he looked up, the other three were waiting patiently for him to continue.  
  
He leaned an elbow on a filing cabinet and hung there thoughtfully, trying to put a flood of ideas into words. "I still believe that there's a connection between what's happened to Henry and what's happened to Radar." He tenatively put forth.  
  
"Because of the time frame? Post hoc ergo propter hoc?" supposed B.J.  
  
"No, not exactly. Well, that's a good bit of evidence, too... but it's more than that-- when Radar said that he'd become a vampire, I don't think he was too far off. He was attempting to deceive us, but I think he was closer to the truth than he'd imagined."  
  
"What are you saying, Father?" Potter demanded.  
  
"I'm saying that there's /something/ Radar needs."  
  
Hawkeye sat up, "What, like blood?" He had good cause to be a little jumpy, after all.  
  
Mulcahy nodded. "Yes, Hawkeye... but, not blood, per se... something like... life. Life, or emotion... I-- I'm sorry, I can't be more specific. But that's-- I think that's the cause behind the jokes. It provokes this... emotional response from people, which he feeds on!"  
  
Mulcahy trembled with exasperation as he railed out these last words; the captains and the colonel looked on impassively. How could they stay so calm at a time like this? "Do you understand what I'm saying?!" he demanded, his eyes wide with panic.  
  
Hawkeye grinned a bit, "Yeah, Father, Radar's become a joke-a-holic."  
  
Mulcahy lifted his hands in frustration.  
  
"I'm SAYING that he's FEEDING on people! Drinking up their very lives! No better than what that Henry creature's doing! Don't you see how serious this is?"  
  
"Father, calm down," Hawkeye snapped, standing up and facing him. "I understand that the church and vampires have never been exactly close, but neither you nor anybody else in this camp has more right to complain about Henry's behavior than I do, at this point, and I'd appreciate it if you'd be a little more respectful."  
  
Mulcahy's jaw set firmly against this rail, but he nodded shortly in aquiescence.  
  
"Fine," Hawkeye continued, more gently, "Now, what do you want us to do about Radar?"  
  
Mulcahy sighed in thought. "For now--" he started, slowly, "I think we need to make sure he's not given the opportunity to... feed... at least, until we figure out exactly what's going on. We saw what happened when Henry finally gave in to the monster that holds him,"  
  
Mulcahy looked up to Hawkeye apologetically. Hawkeye nodded. "So, how do we make sure to keep safe?"  
  
"Well, for one, I'd say-- no jokes."  
  
Mulcahy's prescription was punctuated by a shriek of pain from the next room, and, after a moment of shock, Potter's office was evacuated. 


	32. Chapter 38: Diagnostics

Radar awoke in acute pain. He arced his back again and again into the padding of the post-op ward bed, trying to get comfortable, but the cold nail-chalkboard feeling was clinging to him like seaweed, and wouldn't let him go. Since he'd been admitted to the hospital, he knew, though he could not remember distinctly, he'd been probed and poked and prodded with all sorts of instruments. He could hardly lift his left arm. He got the impression that there had been a needle in it. The pain still lingered.  
  
"You!" he spat out shudderingly across the room to the first person he laid his eyes on, namely B.J. Hunnicutt.  
  
"Radar! You're speaking to us again! Err--" recalling the Father's instructions, "You're awake."  
  
"You stole my glasses!" Radar accused, "Give 'em back! And go get Qot-- my bear while you're at it, will ya? My mom give 'im to me in case I got sick over here, he makes me feel better."  
  
"I didn't--" B.J. tried to cut in, but was lost in the weak ranting of the company clerk, which he didn't have the heart to try to interrupt further. "I'll go get them," he mumbled comfortingly, noting the way Radar was clutching his left arm.  
  
In the dusky, darkening light of day he made a quick stop past the swamp, "Sid? He's coherent again. Could you try talking to him now?"  
  
"That's what I'm here for." Freedman smiled, and stood up.  
  
"Hey, remember-- no jokes."  
  
"Right. Fairies. Drink your soul out through your smile."  
  
B.J. looked around. "Where's Hawkeye?"  
  
"I think he went to grab a shower."  
  
"I'll stop by and tell him that he should go see Radar, too, while I'm at it."  
  
"Give you an excuse to see if he's grape-flavored yet."  
  
B.J. chuckled. "Right." He knocked on the wooden cornerpost of the tent, and meandered off to Radar's office by way of the showers.  
  
"Hello? Yeah, sorry it took me so long to pick up, I'm not quite sure how to work this contraption." Klinger was saying awkwardly into the telephone as B.J. walked in. "Say! You must be Sparky. No, Radar's not here right now, he had a bit of a --" He looked up as B.J. entered. "Can I help you, Captain?"  
  
"No, I'm fine," B.J. picked up the glasses and the bear. "Just came to pick up a few things for our ailing patient." He smiled.  
  
Klinger nodded. "Yeah, I'm here, Sparky. Have I seen WHO?" Klinger was saying as B.J. headed back out the door.  
  
Radar at least seemed to be opening up to the psychologist when B.J. returned to the post-op. As he returned, B.J. caught something about Radar's best friend's dog having to be put down when he was small, and how he's hated getting shots ever since then. Sidney sat patiently, stolidly, minding himself not to crack a joke. Radar's eyes shot up to the approaching doctor, and his trembling right hand lifted up to grab his things. His left arm lay pinned at his side.  
  
"Oh!" he cried, "Qot! Ban! I never thought I'd see you guys again, ever!" he slipped the glasses onto his face with a little bit of difficulty, and held the bear up close to his chest, its head tucked under his chin. "I was so scared, I think I had a heart attack, even."  
  
Sid stood up from the stool on which he'd been sitting.  
  
"Oh--" Radar murmured, "I'm sorry, Major, I didn't mean to stop talking to you."  
  
"It's not a problem, Radar. There are some great therapists I'll never be able to live up to." He gave the bear a little affectionate tousle on the head and turned, tugging B.J. along with him.  
  
~ 


	33. Chapter 39: Problems at Sunset

As the sun disappeared and left Korea once more in a world of darkness, the torpor fled from Henry's limbs, and he awoke.  
  
"Huh? Ow! Gosh-da--" he shouted to himself as he tried to sit up in the darkness only to bap himself in the head on the lid of the coffin.  
  
The lid obligingly flew open, leaving Henry to deal with more pressing concerns. Like the deep, dull ache that spread over his neck, shoulders, and upper back. And like the fact that that familiar hunger had returned to haunt him.  
  
The latter presented itself to the fledgling kindred most immediately. 'H, E, double seven-irons,' he muttered to himself, 'How on the face of God's good earth did that happen? Just how often does this thing expect me to go out and---" he cut himself off, shaking his head as he hopped out of the coffin. Looking around and finding himself alone, he quickly changed out of the bloodstained surgical garb he was still wearing and surreptitiously licked it clean. It didn't help much, but at least Henry was pretty sure he had control of himself.  
  
For now.  
  
As he lifted his hands to pull on his hat, the former problem presented him with a bit of a mystery. Had he slept wrong, and got a crick in his neck? No, it didn't feel like any cricked neck or pinched nerve he'd ever gotten... it was a dull permeating pain, like a deep bruise. Henry rubbed his hand over the back of his neck in confusion, until the obvious answer came.  
  
"Mulcahy..."  
  
Henry Brayton Blake shook his head and sighed heartily. "I suppose it's his job, after all," he reasoned. "He IS a priest. He's supposed to rid the world of sin and corruption."  
  
He sat down on the edge of the VIP cot. "I guess that's me."  
  
He smirked to himself, trying to lighten his load of angst, "Funny, I don't /feel/ evil."  
  
As if in reply, the image of Hawkeye's stupified face contorted in horror in the split second before he clamped his fangs down in his throat popped up in his mind. "Oh, yeah." He admitted. He set his fingers tapping along the edge of his leg, marvelling at how the dead and cold flesh still managed to perform his every whim.  
  
Henry's reverie was interrupted by a knocking that shook the flimsy material of the VIP tent's door.  
  
"Yo," he called, and stood up.  
  
B.J. peeked in, "All clear? How're you feeling, Henry?" he continued, as he hadn't been attacked on sight.  
  
"Fit as a fiddle," Henry fibbed a bit, and headed over to the door, "Though I can't say I recall how I got in here last night. I must have been really smashed."  
  
B.J. opened the door more widely, nodding to the MPs as Henry emerged.  
  
"No," commented Sidney as the other two came to join him, "That'd be Klinger."  
  
"Kli--?" Henry squinted in confusion, "Oh. Oops. Yeah, I really ought to-- "  
  
"Don't worry... he's fine. He saw what that sunlight was doing to you, and admitted that he'd have acted the same way, in your position." Sidney turned to B.J. "Did you tell him?"  
  
"Tell me what?"  
  
"No, not yet..."  
  
"Tell me /what/?"  
  
B.J. and Sidney both hesitated.  
  
Henry beat down a rising sanguine frustration, and waited patiently.  
  
~ 


	34. Chapter 40: By Hook or By Crook, or, Th...

"So you're at it, too, huh?" sneered Burns, lugging the cross around with him under his arm, this time, as he went from bed to bed checking on the patients. "Bucking for a psycho? Talking to your stupid /bear/." He snorted and chuckled to himself, waiting for a reply from the prone corporal.  
  
Radar shivered and was nearly tongue-tied from the cold, stagnant atmosphere shoved on him by Burns' presence. But he tucked Qotenmatch up under his chin and nuzzled down on him affectionately.  
  
"No sir," he calmly replied. "But according to the army statute 7A dash 2 oh eight, ah, under the new revision, it was dash 2 oh seven in the last, any personel the personal belongings of said personel as long as they are of the male sort of gender and of materials made in nations not of a communist nature nor affiliated with any of such nature might put in for repairs or medical attentions as the cases may be as long as the medical malady is similarly affecting said personel say take your typical regulation voo-doo doll as a good example of that, sir."  
  
Frank opened his mouth, thoroughly confused, and then shut it again and moved on. This was about the result Radar had been desiring. Frank's presence in the ward unnerved him somewhat, and direct conversation with him was taxing. "Even more taxing than normal, even," he whined to Qot and Ban.  
  
"Guys? When'll I feel better? I'm really tired, and my arm hurts, and I think I'm losing my sense of smell."  
  
"Hush, now, ward, fear not, salvation comes," cried Bantelhopp from his perch on Radar's head.  
  
"Incarnate in your good friend, Hawkeye Pierce."  
  
Just the thought of seeing Hawkeye's face made Radar smile a bit. "Ohh... when?" he groaned.  
  
"Wait for it," whispered the chimerae in unison.  
  
Two... One... Hawkeye, as promised, burst into the post-op, splitting the oppressive silence with a bang of the double doors.  
  
"Alright, Frank, I'm here," he sang out, settling his twinkling eyes on his favorite target of verbal abuse. "You can stop---" 'molesting these poor people, now,' ran the rest of the line in his head, but the light glared conspicuously off of the familiar coke-bottle lenses of the company clerk, and he halted himself, "You can go, now."  
  
Radar blinked in confusion. The chimerae made little disappointed noises.  
  
Frank seemed no less befuddled. "What, no cracks tonight, Mister... Cracker-Upper?" he snorted.  
  
'Only the one in your head, Frank," Hawkeye thought. "Um, no, not tonight, Frank. Just get out of here, okay?"  
  
Frank left in a smug little huff, and Hawkeye meandered over to Radar's bedside. "How're you doing?" he asked plainly.  
  
"Um, not so well, now my right arm hurts, too..." Radar mumbled.  
  
Hawkeye picked up Radar's right hand and started moving the fingers gently. "How's that?"  
  
Radar frowned, feeling the warmth throbbing within Hawkeye's hand, a stream of caring and love waiting to be let out, but penned in by... by something... leaving only the cool glove of skin touching skin. He shivered, "Oh, it's horrible," he cried. "Hawkeye?"  
  
"Yep?" he asked, keeping his eyes on Radar's hand, avoiding direct eye contact.  
  
"Something wrong?" Radar whispered, ducking his head and twisting his neck to try to catch Hawkeye's attention.  
  
Hawkeye grabbed a stethoscope from a passing nurse, "Nope." He slipped the earpieces into place and pressed the circular metal end to the crook of Radar's elbow.  
  
Radar gritted his teeth and squirmed. "Ooowwww!" he whimpered, the creeping cold of the instrument running up his arm.  
  
"Radar, that doesn't hurt, does it?"  
  
"It wouldn't hurt so much if you..." Radar sputtered, "If you'd just--"  
  
Hawkeye stopped listening at Radar's elbow, and sat up. He finally met Radar's querying gaze.  
  
"Just talk to me," Radar whispered, "That's all."  
  
"What? I can't, Radar." He stated tersely, and shifted backwards a bit.  
  
Radar breathed heavily, feeling suffocated under the strength of the wall that the Captain had put up. He pursed his lips, shoved himself up into a half-sitting position, wincing at the use of his aching arms. He stared at Hawkeye and asked, "Why not?"  
  
Hawkeye didn't bat an eyelash. He didn't have time to. He sat up straight, his head cocked back in his trademark manner, and the words started flowing from his mouth. He was hardly thinking of them, they just... came. And left:  
  
"Why not? Why, there's just no talking to you. Why not? Why not a knot? I've got a knot in my throat the size of the state of Texas, third largest producer in the world of lasso knots, first largest producer of Texans. Get me the producer on the line, I've got to ask him about the lighting for my interview scene with Mister Radar "Why Not?" O'Reilly."  
  
Radar giggled and sat up, stronger now, leaning forward and looking into Hawkeye's face intently. The captain's face was covered in a wide grin; his eyes were slightly wider than normal, as well, as his tongue rattled on as if of its own volition.  
  
"Mind if I ask you a few questions, sir? Is it vegetable, animal, or mineral? Have you ever met a model of a modern Major General? Think I could ever make Major General? You could be my minor General. I hope you've still got those picks under your cot. What else you've got under there I don't want to know, but you've got two weeks to get back all my Nudesweek magazines. One week if you don't want any overdue charges. You might think my prices are sky-high, but I've got North Koreans waiting to shell out big bucks for those magazines. Of course, my Korean might be a little rusty, they might have said they wanted to buck out big shells on the magazines next door. I guess the world will never know. Or, if they do know, they should come find me and tell me. Unless I'm asleep. Then they should just arrange a wake-up call for the end of the war, or Armageddon, whichever comes first. Father Mulcahy and I really need to synchronize our watches. I'd hate to sleep through his big day. I'd hate to sleep through your big day, too, Radar, no offence, but I'm really---"  
  
Hawkeye halted. The words stopped flowing. Radar smiled broadly, his body warm and feeling quite well again. "No problem, Hawk," he jumped up in bed and patted Hawkeye on the shoulder. "Thanks for talking... I really liked listening to you. You could go to bed, now, I'll take care of the rest of these guys."  
  
Hawkeye murmured, "Um. Uh-huh," and stumbled, trying to stand up.  
  
Bantelhopp peeked down at Qotenmatch, who was lying on the bed. He chirped in concern, and the bear rumbled back deeply, frowning.  
  
~ 


	35. Chapter 41: Nominative and Accusative

Major Margaret Houlihan sat on her own, guzzling a cup of cold coffee in between scratching out slots on the new duty roster. The nurses had been trading around shifts so often that the original schedule had become completely useless in trying to figure out where any given nurse was at any given time of day. The problem had only recently been brought to her attention by a politely confused Colonel Potter, who had told her to write up a new one so he'd have some idea of "what the hell was going on in his own damned camp."  
  
Hawkeye and Trapper, of course, had always known where the nurses were at all times. And as to that incompetent bungler Colonel Blake---  
  
Margaret stopped short. It was the first time she'd thought of him all day. And it wasn't a particularly complimentary reaction. Now she blushed as she remembered with humiliation how she'd been yearning to comfort him, singing his praises, and all in front of that Pierce, who'd never let her hear the end of it.  
  
Margaret quickly downed the rest of her coffee and was standing up to fetch more when Frank stepped into the Mess tent. 'Oh, God,' the head nurse winced, 'Please let Hawkeye not have gotten to Frank, yet. Let him tell the whole camp, but not--"  
  
She smiled and sat back down, her prayer answered by the little devilish smirk that Frank shot her way. He'd obviously heard nothing of her little episode. Frank picked up some supper and came to sit down across from her.  
  
"Margaret," he said lowly, stifling a lipless grin.  
  
"Yes, Frank?" she leaned forward toward him invitingly.  
  
"It's after dark!"  
  
"Oh, Frank... I know, but you need to be patient."  
  
"Not that, Margaret... I mean, well, that, too, if you want," Frank tittered, "But I mean /him/."  
  
"Him, Frank?"  
  
"Colonel Blake! He's up! I saw Hunnicutt and Freedman take him out of the VIP tent."  
  
Margaret leaned back again, flustered, "So, Frank?"  
  
"So... I think that you ought to stick by me for protection! You know that /their/ sort can't help but go after pretty women."  
  
Margaret tilted her head to one side, her hair falling over her left shoulder. "But Frank, he bit Hawkeye, remember?"  
  
"Oh, yeah," Frank mused. "I always thought there was something a little odd about that guy..." he snorted in disdain. "But Margaret, I'm worried about you! While he's out, I'm going to go over to the VIP tent and set up those garlic cloves I stowed in your tent. You stay here where there are other people around, you'll be safe until I get back."  
  
Margaret smiled, thinking it sweet, despite her common sense telling her that Henry hasn't shown any signs of allergy to garlic so far, that Frank was so concerned for her well-being. As Frank was leaving, she called, "Oh, but Frank! I need to get these---" But he was gone. "New schedules to Colonel Potter," she finished to herself. "Oh, well." she smiled a bit, and went up to get another cup of coffee and wait.  
  
As she sat down again, a few noncoms who were in the middle of gulping down supper jumped up to attention, spoons and knives clattering to trays in a peppering of clanks that echoed through the tent. Margaret turned around, and her heart leapt up into her throat. It was Henry. He was still in the process of entering, half bent over to miss the doorframe, his eyes serious and scanning the tent intently, his features somber and steady and unutterably irresistible. She dropped her coffee cup. Second one in two days.  
  
Henry didn't notice. His attention was undiverted from the fellow for whom he'd come looking. "Mulcahy," he muttered, striding forward.  
  
The chaplain looked up from the tear-soaked pages of his bible; his eyes narrowed. "Blake," he stood up.  
  
Henry reached the opposite side of the table and rested his hands on it, leaning forward. Mulcahy made a similar gesture, until their faces were a matter of five or six inches apart.  
  
"What the hell did you do to Radar?!" they shouted.  
  
Henry: "If you think you've got the right to bully the rest of us around just because you've got some kind of "green light" from the wild blue yonder, father, you've got another think coming; now I've seen what it is you can do, and I've felt the effects, and, goddammit (sorry, father), I AM the best diagnostician in Bloomington, Illinois, and I don't know if that means anything to you, but to me it means that if it quacks like a duck and looks like a duck, you've probably got something to do with those pains Radar's been complaining about in his hands and arms, and all because of a few little practical jokes! Now, really, Father, if you've got something against me, I can take it, but leave the kid out of this, huh?"  
  
Father Mulcahy (at the same time): "I don't know what you've done to that boy, Henry, and I don't even know if you're aware you've done it, but some monster has emerged in him; these pranks are far less innocuous than they seem! It's some sort of feeding, some draining of life; I don't suppose you'd understand anything about that, would you? You can't keep denying what's happening to you, what's happening to him! You have to face the facts: we have to stop it before it spreads any further! If you've seen the things I've seen, heard the things I've heard, you wouldn't be giving me such trouble; I've always tries to leave the doctoring to the doctors of this unit-- leave to me the tasks that I've been selected to perform!"  
  
"Guys, /guys/, GUYS!" Margaret, who had come to stand at the head of the table, screamed, calling an end to the shouting match between the two. When her desired result had been obtained, she turned toward Father Mulcahy with an accusing look, "What's the problem, here?" she demanded.  
  
The chaplain, speechless after his rant, gestured vaguely toward the vampire in front of him, as if to say that the entirely of the problem could be summed up in two words: Henry Blake.  
  
She turned to look, her face shifting from accusing and angry to worried and caring. "What's wrong, Henry?" she asked, her voice softened considerably.  
  
Henry was almost as taken aback as Father Mulcahy was in respect to the informal -- and even close -- manner that Margaret took with him. But he wasn't going to let it get in the way of having someone to rant to who'd actually listen.  
  
"There's something wrong with Radar, and I think Father Mulcahy might be responsible." He managed to get out as calmly as possible.  
  
Margaret paused, considering her words. "Henry--" she spoke slowly, "Radar's fine-- see?" she pointed, "Eating like a horse, as usual." She smiled, no harshness toward the friend of their gallant ex-commander in her voice.  
  
"Huh?" Henry wittily replied.  
  
Looking back across the mess tent, there, indeed, sat Radar, half hiding behind a mountain of mashed potatoes, chewing intently.  
  
Henry, mightily puzzled, called out, "Um, Radar? You okay?"  
  
"I'm feeling a little better than I was, sir." Radar  
  
~ 


	36. Chapter 42: In Which It Appears To Sidn...

Sidney Freedman ran into the swamp, slightly sweaty from having run from the vicinity of the VIP tent, to post-op, to Radar's office, back to the VIP tent, then finally to the infamous home of the swamprats.  
  
He ran in, looked around, and was halfway back out the door before he noticed Hawkeye sitting on the edge of his bunk, his bathrobe draped taut across his knees, his hands resting still on top of them, not shuffling a deck of cards, not cradling a martini, not blowing up rubber-glove balloons for later. He wasn't smiling, wasn't smirking, wasn't frowning, wasn't scowling, wasn't humming, wasn't whistling, wasn't even looking at anything in particular. He was just sitting there.  
  
Sidney skidded to a halt on his way out the door. "Hawkeye? You seen Henry come past here? B.J. and I kind of... lost... track of him."  
  
"Hawkeye?"  
  
Meanwhile, B.J. had hit upon better luck. He jogged into the mess tent.  
  
"I'm feeling a little better than I was, sir." Radar piped meekly.  
  
"Radar!" yelled B.J., surprised to see him there, as he'd seen him in post- op in some discomfort not very long ago. "Henry!" he continued, relieved. "There you are. You had me worried."  
  
B.J. finally took a second to take in the scene: a handful of young men standing rigidly at attention, most of the others silently looking on over their suppers, Father Mulcahy and Margaret looking agitated, Henry looking-- befuddled, and Radar trying to hide in his dinner. "Did I have... reason to be worried?"  
  
Henry shook his head, "No, Beej, it's fine, y'see-- gaah!" he shouted, having finally noticed the people standing at attention in the mess tent. He saluted wildly and turned around this way and that, wondering what General had snuck in while he wasn't paying attention.  
  
"Oh." He finally realized, as all their eyes were trained on him. "Um. At ease." He watched in wonder as they all smiled and sat down, returning to their interrupted conversations. Henry pulled his hat a little down on his his head. "Why didn't they ever do that when I was actually in charge?" he wondered, as he went and slid onto a seat next to Radar.  
  
"I think that the, uh, newest version of the Rules of Military Etiquette and Protocol might have been updated as to the necessity of standing at attention when in the actual physical process of using the Mess. I'm pretty sure some distinction was made between personages below the rank of lieutenant in the middle of the act of chewing and those personages above said rank in the contrary act of swallowing." Radar mumbled through a mouthful of mashed potatoes, hardly taking his eyes off of his plate.  
  
Henry nodded affably as he let the string of military mumbo-jumbo float in one ear and out the other. "I see. Well, they obviously didn't make any regulation about attempting to talk during said acts, hm, Radar?" He patted the Corporal on the back, and Radar snorked powdered milk out his nose from the case of the giggles he'd gotten.  
  
Henry passed him a napkin. "Lovely, kid."  
  
The two looked up to see Father Mulcahy sit down across from Henry. "You don't think it might be because they're afraid of you?"  
  
Henry smirked, "That's ridiculous, Father." He shook his head slowly, looking at the table, then slowly lifted his gaze to meet the priest's. "Isn't it?"  
  
The father replied with a generous amount of serious silence, interrupted by Margaret Houlihan as she swept down to sit at Mulcahy's side, her clipboard scraping along the wooden boards of the table as she sat down. She graced the chaplain with a scalding grimace and reached across to rest her hand on Henry's, "Of course it is, Colonel. I'm sure nobody here's afraid of you. Except maybe for Father Mulcahy." She added, leaning back in disapproval of their chaplain's behavior.  
  
Henry resisted the urge to pull back at the unwonted show of affection from the Major, and merely made curious note of it, smiling goofily and warmly at the sulky Father Mulcahy. "Oh, come on, Father... I'm certainly nothing to be afraid of," he insisted.  
  
Mulcahy sighed. "I beg to differ."  
  
Radar blinked, "Oh, don't do that, Father," he warbled, "Your knees get enough wear and tear as is and--" he trailed off, a consternated look washing over him as he turned around to watch the door of the mess tent.  
  
Henry turned similarly, and Margaret and Father Mulcahy tilted to one side to see what it was that had been caught on Radar's radar.  
  
And so it was that Sidney Freedman entered the Mess tent and found four sets of eyes trained on him. He startled backward an inch or two, bringing an arm up in a frightened gesture and looking swiftly from side to side. Calming down, he smiled and spoke. "Are you all trying to--" his speech cut off and he looked around again, more slowly. "One second," he interrupted himself, and walked back outside.  
  
He re-entered with a blasé-looking Hawkeye Pierce in tow. He let the doctor settle on a backless chair at the head of the table, and Henry and Radar scooted down to give him room to sit. "Thanks. Least you can do for ruining a perfectly good pair of pants. But on to more important matters-- "  
  
"Hey, Hawk," B.J. came to sit down on the other side of Margaret from Father Mulcahy, bearing a tray of the usual Mess tent slop. "Done with your rounds already?"  
  
An unaccustomed silence settled over the table. "Um, yeah." Hawkeye finally replied, his eyes not quite focusing on B.J.  
  
Sidney rested a hand on Hawkeye's shoulder, "Want me to pick you up some dinner, Hawk?" he asked gently.  
  
Hawkeye turned at the contact. "Sure," he answered after a moment.  
  
Sidney stood, shrugged awkwardly at the gathered individuals, and went to make up a tray for the oddly-behaving captain.  
  
While all the others sat in quiet contemplation of Hawkeye, Mulcahy turned his head to look down the table at Radar, who was trying to dig a hole in his mashed potatoes to crawl into.  
  
~ 


	37. Chapter 43: Uneasy Peace Talks

"Radar, listen to me, ignore my words  
  
No longer," Bantlehopp pleaded, "Look, he comes, our Hawkeye Pierce  
  
Of late, who now inspires naught in all  
  
His friends but creeping dark concern."  
  
Radar slid around in his seat, the outline of the door to the mess tent burning its image into his retinas. Bantelhopp sharpened the emerald green scene into a bright, surreal vision. Sidney appeared first. A dull shimmer spreading over the wrinkles of his face, exaggerated as if viewed through a pair of skewed 3D goggles. The jollity of Sidney's reception rolled over the changeling without taking much purchase. He kept watching. Hawkeye appeared; a skeleton wrapped in brown-black half-fleshed leather, red robe rotting and peeling off in tattered scraps.  
  
"Attend!" chirped the chimera, polishing off the verse.  
  
Radar turned back around and plunged his spoon into the mashed potatoes. "Stop it!" he whispered under his breath.  
  
"In what should I desist, my dearest ward?" questioned the little dragon.  
  
"No wrong here has been wrought by me; of you,  
  
However, such a thing may not be said.  
  
If lookst you at him and likest not what you see,  
  
It is yourself to blame. Not Qotenmatch,  
  
Nor I, nor any we call kin, would teach  
  
You such a foul, unpardonable deed.  
  
I've done no wrong here; if you care to look  
  
Again, I'll show again what you have done,  
  
But blame me not, kill not the messenger  
  
Who bears from far away - for far away  
  
You seem - these tidings which you send yourself."  
  
Radar dug the spoon deeper into the pile of potatoes, until metal hit metal and sent a creeping chill ringing through his ears, and the skeleton sat down at the head of the table and the shiny man left and Radar, full to the brim with accusations from himself and from the falcon-headed dragon sitting on his head, caught the stare that Mulcahy gave him, a pang of a glance, which seared the changeling's eyes to see, and which the Chimera kept lingering in his vision even when he'd turned away.  
  
Radar ripped the glasses off of his face, shoved them three inches deep into the mashed potatoes, and stood up. Shrieking something about having to go to the latrine, he stormed out of the mess tent.  
  
Sidney, on his way back to the table, halted mid-stride in surprise at the outburst, and Henry stopped attempting to make conversation with the Hawkeye of the severely limited vocabulary.  
  
"Jeez! What's wrong with that kid?" Henry wondered, lifting himself easily up out of his seat and reaching into Radar's deserted tray, picking out the dripping specs and stepping over the bench to head after him.  
  
"Henry, stop!" Mulcahy shouted, jumping up and running a circle around Hawkeye and Sidney. "Be careful with that! It might bite!"  
  
Henry looked down at the glasses. "What?" he asked, squinting at the priest in puzzlement.  
  
Mulcahy grabbed the glasses from Henry and held them gingerly at arm's length. "I don't know if it bites, or not."  
  
"The /glasses/?"  
  
"Oh. Right," B.J. piped up, "Radar's glasses are evidently some kind of... lizard... thing." He shook his head, "Hawk, your taciturnity is spreading." He smirked at the glazed-eyed doctor.  
  
"Sorry," mumbled Pierce.  
  
"Right," B.J. sighed.  
  
"Ohh..." started Henry, his voice soft with the light of realization, "You mean, the glasses are a lizard like Radar is a fairy, hm?"  
  
"Who'd have thought?" B.J. affirmed.  
  
"Well, you never know, sometimes," Henry smiled, eyes focusing on nothing in particular as he trailed off.  
  
"Please! Gentlemen! Could we try to be serious about this for a moment?" Mulcahy begged. "I really think that Hawkeye could be in horrible danger if we don't get Radar to cooperate with us."  
  
Henry frowned, "Yeah, Father," he reached up to rub his aching shoulder, "I've seen the way you get folks to 'cooperate', and don't think I'm going to sit idly by and let you make mince meat of that poor boy."  
  
Father Mulcahy's posture slouched slightly and he pushed his own glasses up on his nose as the pair he held at a distance dripped mashed potatoes that sent the ants scurrying away in all directions on the floor. "Please, Henry. A truce. For now. For Hawkeye. In case I'm wrong, I promise that Radar will come to no harm. But if I'm right, there might still be something we can do for Hawkeye. Look at him."  
  
Henry seemed pained to do so, but he looked.  
  
"That's not the Hawkeye we know, is it? You may have hurt him, you may have taken something from him, but what Radar's done is something-- far, far worse. You can see that. You know it's true. Please. Let me go-- and just talk to him! You stay here and watch over Hawkeye until I come back."  
  
Henry sunk back down onto the bench at the Father's words, the pain in his back eclipsed by pangs of guilt inspired thereby. He certainly knew that if there was one person who could talk Radar through such a critical period and make sure he came out with his head on straight where it came to what was right and wrong, it was Father Mulcahy.  
  
"Go talk to him, Father." He assented. "But if I find one hair out of place on the little guy's head..."  
  
Mulcahy nodded quietly, and headed out the doors.  
  
Henry spun around and drummed his fingers on the table. "Why, oh, why, just when I was getting good and ready to hate him, does he have to go and say something-- decent. Why?"  
  
"I don't know," droned Hawkeye. As a matter of custom, B.J., Margaret, and Henry waited for the usual punchline to follow, but none came.  
  
"Rhetorical question, Pierce." Henry shook his head.  
  
"Oh." Hawkeye nodded dully.  
  
Margaret momentarily excused herself to go find Frank, under the pretence of needing to deliver a revised schedule to Colonel Potter. Severally, the others who had been eating there in the mess tent also meandered out, until only the surgeon B.J. Hunnicutt, the fledgling Brujah Henry Blake, and the recent Pooka-Snack Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce remained, trying to salvage what was quickly turning into a dreadful evening.  
  
~ 


	38. Chapter 44: A Changeling Hunt Requires ...

Father John Francis Patrick Mulcahy, meanwhile, started in the direction of the latrine. The sterile white shafts of artificial light that cut through the nighttime campground and made the nipping wind that much cooler shimmered off the murky lenses of the flailing glasses the priest held clamped in his left hand.  
  
He frowned and bent his elbow to bring the object into closer range, and hissed at it, "And you, too! I guess you were in on all of this, hm? Well, just remember, I never made any promises about you. And if you don't think I'd do something, just go find Billy O'Sullivan-- he and I used to scrap for fun on the lawn before boxing-- I broke /his/ glasses often enough to keep his parents out of tape half the school year!"  
  
"Father?"  
  
Mulcahy looked up, surprised to find himself interrupted mid-threat by the sentinel on duty, who looked equally surprised to come upon the camp chaplain having a shouting match with an inanimate object.  
  
"Everything alright?"  
  
Mulcahy opened his mouth and cast an accusatory glance at the pitiful-looking object in his hand. He shut his mouth again, biting his lower lip and reigning in his self-control. "Yes. Pardon me." he tersely spoted, and continued past.  
  
"If I keep talking to you, people will think I've gone off the deep end." Mulcahy observed in the general direction of the chimera as he came to stand near the latrine.  
  
The crunching of the gravel under the shoes of the sentinel underscored the otherwise profound silence.  
  
"He's not here," Mulcahy mumbled to himself, feeling silly for having said it even as the words were leaving his mouth. Of course, the first place to look for a fellow who's spent all day spreading several layers of mistruths is in the place he confessed himself to be going.  
  
That familiar glare off the grungy lenses caught his attention.  
  
"Shut up!" Mulcahy replied testily, deciding to make his next stop the errant Corporal's office, passing, one more time, the confused sentinel, who saluted hesitatingly and answered, "Sorry, sir."  
  
Mulcahy sprinted the rest of the way back across the compound to Radar's office.   
  
Klinger was leaning over a pile of papers, puffing at a cigar.  
  
"Seven-I-Semicolon...." he began  
  
"E... s... a...." he concluded, befuddledly.  
  
"Father. Do you know what '7i;esa' is supposed to mean?" Klinger questioned, as the chaplain scampered in.  
  
"No. Have you seen Radar?"  
  
"No... he isn't in post-op?"  
  
"No... oh, nevermind--" Father Mulcahy wheeled around, and was about to leave when he spun around again, ran to Potter's office doors, looked in the windows, and, not finding Radar there, turned around again, and froze in his tracks, staring at the teddy bear on the cot, blazing with the crescent monster signal.  
  
"I guess it's some kind of special... military code..." Klinger shrugged, turning to the typewriter.  
  
"I guess it is," whispered Mulcahy, sweeping out the door, grabbing the teddy bear on the way out.  
  
Erupting out into the night, Mulcahy slowed to a halt in the light of the central compound, the silence growing oppressively irritating. Where could that damned creature have gotten to? He tilted his head to face the ground, listening out as he moved in between the tents. He was accustomed to taking quiet walks in the evenings to put his thoughts in order, and, as his vision was often unfocused, he'd gotten used to the sounds of the nocturnal camp. Nothing seemed out of place. Nothing, that is, in the vein he was looking out for. Looking down at the items in his hand, he took in a deep breath, and looked behind him, slipping into a shadowy patch behind the VIP tent.   
  
Taking off his glasses and tucking them in his shirt pocket, "Oh, God help me," he whispered, and, half hoping that something drastic would happen, half hoping that nothing would happen at all, he put on the pair that belonged to the Changeling. Grasping along the edge of the tent, he sidled along until he reached the edge of the shadows, facing into the compound. He opened his eyes.  
  
The compound was bathed in something like daylight. The effect was dizzying, compounded with the super-clear lines reverse-blurring in the normal manner for a person wearing a prescription glasses far stronger than his own, causing individual pieces of white sand to glare out of the compound floor, and panels of olive drab slide popping out at him in emerald green.  
  
Leaning backward to steady himself on a steel tentpost, he suddenly spun around, gasping at the sight of the post, a color black so dark in contrast to everything around it that it seemed to have a color of its own. A bright black.  
  
Moderating his breath to help the shock of the change, Mulcahy lifted his hand in a nervous habit to lift the glasses up on his nose. He set his jaw firmly and locked his knees when his fingers touched a warm scaly leg.  
  
"All right. Where is he?" Mulcahy started, trying his best not to let his voice waver with the fear of having a dragon perched on the side of his head.  
  
"Our young ward meant no harm, but he--" Mulcahy nearly dropped the bear that had been tucked under his arm as it began to speak, but he gripped the creature in both of his hands and squeezed perhaps a little harder than was warranted.  
  
"Tell me where he is, or God help me--"  
  
Bantelhopp let out a loud chirp from above, cutting off the threat.  
  
Mulcahy felt the noise move into the middle of his words and cut them short. He almost felt as if he had to physically shift his thoughts around in his head to continue his train of thought. This process done, however, he simply uttered, "Oh."  
  
He knew where Radar was. He turned and began to walk out of the camp.  
  
He was hardly thinking about it. He tried to, but it was hard to focus on where he was headed. In a few moments he flexed his fingers against he bear, trying to ascertain that he was, in fact, still in control of his faculties, and hadn't been completely taken over by these monsters.  
  
"Don't fear." Bantelhopp whistled from above.  
  
"But will you listen, now? We're on our way;  
and this you know from your own senses, which,  
of course, are ours."  
  
"The radar..." Mulcahy mumbled, falling, oddly enough, in the rhythm of the verse.  
  
"Yes, but trust  
us now on that, and hear us next on this:  
the tragic case of Hawkeye Pierce. Start not  
like that, let me speak on. We ourselves call  
it mournful, wish to see it righted, for  
we think it may. Despite your threats, we would  
not shown you to him had we ever thought  
him blameless, and you not without mal-intent."  
  
During this speech, Mulcahy walked along, spying now and again to right or left dark patches rising from the earth, which he seemed to be navigating in between while seeming, to himself, to be walking in a straight line. With some concentration he came to the realization that he was walking through the minefield. How Radar had gotten through the minefield at night half-blind was beyond him, until he realized that there were certainly other paths to be taken /around/ the minefield that would lead to locations on the other side. He felt the peculiar discomfort of having his very life in the hands of a dragon and a small magic bear. Had they led him out here falsely? Was this a trap? No, it wasn't, was the answer that immediately popped into his mind.  
  
The answer, he tried to remind himself, supplied by the monsters themselves.  
  
No, it simply wasn't the truth. The chimerae were truly trying to help.  
  
Mulcahy grimaced and tried to keep his brain on straight. "So, you both are against this... feeding? Isn't it... I don't know... normal, for your kind?"  
  
"Not hardly," piped Qotenmatch. "Yet you don't believe me: No,  
"I say, we are of a different sort than those  
Who feed and plunder in such a shameful fashion.  
But Radar-- he is young, and he was hurt;  
He was confused, he knew not why his friend  
Was now hiding himself and not allowing  
Him any recourse to recovery."  
  
"Hiding himself?" Mulcahy wondered down at the bear, as he began to find the ground more rocky and the terrain a bit more treacherous. "Hiding himself..." He recalled, as if out of nowhere, his injunctive to the staff to withold what he thought Radar was feeding off of. "Hiding himself." He repeated a third time. "And so he felt... he had to take it some other way."  
  
A flush ran over his face at the thought of himself at the root of all of this. "Dear lord..." he shook his head, resting a hand on a boulder he now found at waist height.  
  
"Dear lord!" chorused the chimerae on his person. Mulcahy, confused at the echo, looked up, and his jaw fell open, the hair on the back of his neck prickling with shock.  
  
A wide crack in a stone outcropping lay ahead, radiating jolly warmth.  
  
"It's a cave," Mulcahy observed, creeping involuntarily closer.  
  
Qotenmatch looked up at Bantelhopp, his little muzzle trembling in awe of the place.  
  
~ 


	39. Chapter 45: A Freehold From the Storm

Radar had managed to keep on the path, keeping to the high ground, each slip down from the rise confronting him with a chill that egged him in the right direction. He focused on trying to put one foot ahead of the other, and keeping his footing solid on the increasingly rocky terrain.   
  
Coming to the top of a rise, he turned around, scanning the distance with eyes screwed up, upper lip curved tensely and mouth open slightly, just starting to breathe more heavily than normal. Indeed he saw, there in the valley, a blur of green light in the middle of the darkness. "Oh!" he cried out, and turned away. His foot, trying to take the next step forward, caught after about two inches, hard, on a rock, and he yelped as he took a tumble down into the mouth of the cave.  
  
Radar landed with very little grace and even less dignity, rolling harshly down a jagged slope before his body found a flat surface to come to rest on. But for all the scrapes and emerging bruises, Radar was fine. So to speak. He chuckled wanly to himself, a weak sound, something like the braying of a horse.  
  
"Hawkeye's fine," Radar assured himself, grunting as he straightened himself to lie out on his back, lifting an arm to rest his head on.  
  
"Hawkeye's just fine." He nodded, the atmosphere of the cave seeming comfortable and familiar, light and airy despite the inky darkness.  
  
"Just fine..." his voice trailed off, his eyes shut as he let his thoughts sink inward. He propped his foot up on a stalagmite, and crossed the other ankle over it, then stretched his other arm up to join the first, making a cradle into which they could seep down and snuggle.  
  
After all, why shouldn't Hawkeye be fine? Hawkeye'd get through sniper fire and shelling, this war, World War Three, and maybe even a family weekend with great-aunt Tabitha without getting a hair out of place. The world is just full of glamour, and what person knows it better than Hawkeye? Even in a war zone, he knows just what rocks to look under to find and pluck each stray smile he can. What could'a been wrong with him, there, in the post-op? He wasn't being himself. Could he have been... sick, or, broken, or... something? Well, it must'a been a blessing that Radar was there to help him, to-- to show him where it was again, to help him use it again. What's it they say? You never really know what you got, until it's gone. Well... now Hawkeye knows, again... yeah, all thanks to Radar...  
  
He nearly wept as he kept running lines of comforting untruth through his mind.  
  
"Radar?"  
  
His eyes opened, and he turned his neck to see the silhouettes of Father Mulcahy, Bantelhopp and Qotenmatch in the mouth of the cave.  
  
~ 


	40. Chapter 46: Let Chaos Reign

Colonel Potter sauntered out of his office, pushing the door open cautiously ahead of him and looking to both sides before stepping out. "Klinger? What in the name of the Great Rio Grand-ee was that blur that just peeked in my office window?"  
  
Klinger turned away from the typewriter, "Oh, that was just Father Mulcahy, sir."  
  
"Father Mulcahy? What was wrong? Haven't seen a face like that on the Padre since Bongo crawled up his pants leg."  
  
Klinger turned and went back to typing. "I'm not sure... he was looking for Radar."  
  
Colonel Potter paused, his face scrunching up in concern. He walked up behind Klinger, and put his hands on his shoulders.  
  
"Isn't Radar--" he started, trying to keep his voice soft. "Supposed to be in post-op?"  
  
Klinger stopped typing again, and tilted his head to one side to look up backwards at the fuming Colonel.  
  
"Funny, sir, I was wondering the same thing, but I guess I didn't think it was that big a deal. I was busy trying to figure out this stupid army code."  
  
"Oh, Klinger, it really isn't that hard to understand," Potter started, leaning down and pulling his glasses out of his pocket. He frowned and wrinkled his nose to try to pull the letters into focus. "'7i;esa'? What the heck is that?"  
  
Klinger shrugged exaggeratedly and went back to typing out the form.  
  
"Colonel Potter! COLONEL POTTER!" Frank shrieked, bolting through the double doors and across the clerk's office, pushing through the second set of doors without slowing his pace.  
  
"Oh, Lord, what now?" Potter stood up from his inspection of the report header.  
  
"Colonel Potter!" Frank repeated, coming back in from the Colonel's office and coming to a halt before his commanding officer.  
  
"What is it, Frank," Potter asked, without a hint of real interest.  
  
"Oh, Colonel Potter, sir, I've got some terrible news, just terrible!" Frank sniveled, squirming in place.  
  
"Spit it out, Frank."  
  
"It's Father Mulcahy, Colonel. I was on my way out of the VIP tent--"  
  
Potter frowned, "What in the name of Beelzebub's Blue Bonnet were you doing in the VIP tent?"  
  
Frank paled. "What was I doing in the VIP tent, sir?"  
  
"I asked you first, Major."  
  
Frank looked around shiftily. "I was-- looking for Father Mulcahy! And I found him! Going into the /mine field/!!!"  
  
"The mine--" Potter sputtered, "Great Caesar's Ghost!"  
  
"Oh, my God!" Klinger cried out at the same time, shoving back the desk chair and leaping up. Potter and Klinger ran for the door, Frank getting tangled up between them and ending up sprawled on the floor.  
  
~ 


	41. Chapter 47: And He Shall Reign

"I can't."  
  
"You have to."  
  
Mulcahy scuttled down into the cave, "Radar, listen to me. You HAVE to help him."  
  
"I don't know how to-- I don't even know what's the matter with him! Why don't you all just leave me alone?" Radar sat up, squinting as he lost sight of the shadowy figure in the dim inside of the cave.  
  
"Radar! Heed unto him! You do! You can!" urged Qotenmatch, reaching his little cuddly arms out toward his young Pooka ward, grabbing onto his shirt and clinging there.  
  
Mulcahy stepped back from the changeling, swung around him thirty or forty degrees. "He's in great distress," he whispered to himself, then, out loud, "Radar, I can see you're penitent for what you've done."  
  
Radar gripped the chimera to his heart, spinning around to follow the voice.  
  
"Why don't you come back to camp with me," continued Mulcahy, lifting his chin and enunciating every syllable with authority. "Why don't you listen to these... companions... of yours." He continued circling, and Radar kept trying to keep up with him.  
  
Mulcahy halted, driving home his speech, "Why don't you give back what you took."  
  
Radar sighed heavily, the breath shaking with a stifled sob. He reached his hands up to his face and pressed his fists into his eyes, turning away from the voice, the voice of the man of God... God, yes, he remembered God, remembered taking a walk with his ma to church on Sundays, and how when he got out of Sunday school she'd be there to see the gold star he'd gotten for being able to name all twelve disciples with only missing one or two, and how she'd be proud of him for being her little man, and so, so grown up, so smart. And what would ma think, to see him now, to see all the pranks, the-- the stealing-- ma had always said to share, and to leave the hoggin' to the hogs, 'cause that kind of behavior wasn't suit for human beings in the image of God. Give back what you took, now, Walter, ma said, ma said he should give back what he took.  
  
Mulcahy, looking on, physically onto the slight, sshaking body of the familiar Radar O'Reilley, chimerically upon the thoughts burning through his skull, shivered as he understood that he was the cause and source of all this. He had thought that he had had some effect on Henry, but he could only feel that effect vaguely, deep down, in a place most people would pass off as imagination. Through the chimerical spectacles, now, he could see exactly what he was doing.  
  
He was bringing monsters, cursed to Satan, back to God.  
  
Taking a deep breath, and, as Radar said nothing, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder, Mulcahy took his other hand and lifted the dragon off of his face, handing Bantelhopp back to Radar.  
  
The world fell silent. The world went pitch black. Mulcahy hadn't quite expected that, and the change of perception staggered him a bit, his comforting hand clutching firmly on Radar's shoulder.  
  
Radar looked back to Mulcahy, and reached back to take his hands and lead him safely up the rocky slope.  
  
"My ma says... thanks."  
  
Mulcahy nodded, trying to feel safe in the arms of the monster he's trying to reform. "Please, Radar, come and talk to me... later. For now, Hawkeye needs our help."  
  
They came to the top of the rise, and Mulcahy put his own glasses back on. They looked down at the lights of the camp in the distance.  
  
"I think I might have an idea." Radar said slowly and decidedly.  
  
While Father Mulcahy had been walking around seeing the world with chimerical eyes, he hadn't looked back and noticed the pillar-like flare of a beacon of joy that spouted from the M*A*S*H 4077th.  
  
~ 


	42. Chapters 48 to 53: Forever and Ever, or,...

"Into the /mine field/!" Henry stood up as Klinger ducked his head into the mess tent to shout out the word.  
  
His eyes widened and his jaw dropped, "Oh, man, and he was going after Radar, too... that poor kid'll get blown to bits!"  
  
These words had hardly left his mouth but he was at the door, following Klinger and Potter across the compound.  
  
Sidney was about to follow, but B.J. stopped him, "Hey, Sid, shouldn't we stay here and watch after Hawkeye?"  
  
They turned their neck in unison to look at the Captain, who was staring blankly at a glass of powdered milk.  
  
Sidney shook his head, "I don't think he's going anywhere, and, as long as there aren't any mines in the mess tent--"  
  
"-- And I've had suspicions about some of the meatballs--" B.J. cut in.  
  
"I think that Radar and the Father need more help than he does, right now."  
  
B.J. nodded, and they headed out the door.  
  
*  
  
Henry arrived at the edge of the minefield before either the Colonel or the Corporal, and squinted out into the darkness, cupping his mouth with his hands and calling, "Radar!" He heard a shuffle of boots behind him, and spun around in eager expectation, but it was only Colonel Potter, Klinger close behind, lifting his simple peasant skirt.  
  
"All right, folks, this is what we're going to do:" Colonel Potter started, authoritatively.  
  
"I'm going after them," Henry informed them, turning to face the minefield and trying to shove aside the nagging little fear of dying a second time over.  
  
"Klinger, you're going to-- What? No you're not, and that's an ord--"  
  
Henry nearly growled as the beast inside chafed at being told what to do and what not to do. He spun back around, scowling, fangs bared. "Look!" he snarled, then winced, "Oww--" as he'd not anticipated the problems of speaking with fangs. He lifted a hand to press on the small nick on his lip, and continued, albeit less impressively. "Look, you might be his C.O. now, and you might BE a full Colonel, but that kid was-- is-- like a son to me, and I won't stand by and see anything happen to him!"  
  
Even for a man who'd seen two wars prior to this one, Colonel Potter stood up remarkably well to the onslaught from the vampire. "Alright, alright," he ceded, "Calm down. Just how do you intend to find them in all of this?"  
  
Henry knew. He didn't, however, care to say. He took a step into the minefield. "I'll find him." He stood still for an instant, rooting around within himself for that hunger he'd been suppressing all evening. When the wind turned to bring in the air from the mountains, rather than from the camp, which was, of course, full of human life, he smelled it. Faint, yes, but there. Human blood. He shivered at how nice it smelled. He gripped tightly onto that part of himself that said that he was only using the smell to find his friend as it grew smaller and smaller, and let the beast lead him there.  
  
*  
  
Meanwhile, Radar and Father Mulcahy had taken the long road (and the safe road, not being the one through the minefield) back around the side of camp, using the cover of darkness to conceal their return.  
  
"Okay," Radar whispered to the Chaplain, "You remember what I told you to do, right?"  
  
"Yes," Mulcahy admitted, "I don't know how it'll help, but..."  
  
"Father?"  
  
"Yes, my son?"  
  
"Do you have a blessing for a practical joke?"  
  
"I'm-- sure I could come up with something."  
  
Radar smiled, "Thanks. He's in the office."  
  
"Right."  
  
They parted ways, Radar toward the mess tent, Mulcahy toward the office.  
  
"Hawkeye? Hawkeye..." Radar called through the mesh wall of the dining area.  
  
"Huh?" Hawkeye replied.  
  
Radar, seeing that Hawkeye was alone, crept in the door. "It's me, Radar... come with me,"  
  
Hawkeye turned, saw that the words he had heard were, in fact, correct, and showed the first sign of emotion since he'd been found in the Swamp: terror. "No," he stated simply, lifting a hand to try to protect himself.  
  
The guilt that Mulcahy had instilled in Radar's system multiplied itself and seemed to be too much for him to contain, seeing the pain he'd caused the sometime cheerful and glamourous Swamprat.  
  
"Please... come out to the compound with me. I'm going to try to make things right, again."  
  
Hawkeye watched him for a moment. The terror ebbed, but remained. "Okay." He finally said, and stood up.  
  
Radar put on his best grin. "Great. Follow me," he scampered out of the tent.  
  
Hawkeye plodded along behind.  
  
*  
  
"Major Burns!" Mulcahy shouted as he ran in the front door of Radar's office. "Thank goodness I found you here."  
  
Frank had been trying to reorganize his contingent of crosses so that he wouldn't get quite so perforated should he ever fall down again. "What's it to you--" he sneered, then looked up from straightening his shirt.  
  
"Hey! It's you! I thought you'd be having a party with the angels by now, /lieutenant/."  
  
"Oh? Oh! Yes, me, too... I... ran into the minefield. I was terrified. But I decided I should come back here and warn /you/, Major."  
  
Frank snorted, "Well, you can leave me to my own business, thank you very much!" His upper lip quivered, however, and soon enough he followed with "Warn me what?"  
  
Mulcahy stepped forward. "Colonel Blake saw what you did to the VIP tent. He's HOPPING mad, and looking, I think, for you."  
  
Frank turned white.  
  
*  
  
"I hope he knows what he's doing," Potter turned to murmur apprehensively to Klinger.  
  
"Me, too, sir."  
  
They looked back to where Henry had been standing. He was gone. There wasn't a trace of him to be seen.  
  
B.J. and Sidney hustled up to the two of them.  
  
"How can we help?"  
  
Potter was tongue-tied for a moment, then, figuring that he'd go along with his own plan and let Henry deal with what he felt he had to deal with would at least let people feel like they were doing something and was likely not to get him another pair of fangs in the face, he nodded his head and spread his hands. "All right. You two," he pointed to the two newcomers, "Go to the supply tent and get all the lanterns you can."  
  
"You," he turned to Klinger, "Go back to the office and find the maps of the minefield."  
  
"All of you--" he added, "Try not to let everybody else get all panicky. This'll be strictly hush-hush, for now."  
  
"Right, Colonel," B.J. nodded, and the three of them headed off to their allotted tasks.  
  
*  
  
The landmines were confused about the superhuman speed of their intended target. They watched it pass overhead without ever setting foot on the ground long enough to set off an explosion.  
  
Before the men he'd left on the other side could turn back around, he was standing in the mouth of the cave, staring down into the darkness and trying to get a grip on the animal he'd almost let loose.  
  
"Radar, are you in here?" he called softly into the cave, stepping down.  
  
No, he wasn't here. There wasn't anybody here. Henry lowered himself to sit on a broken stalagmite. Where was that enticing odor coming from, then? As he considered, he kept lowering himself, until he was leaning up against the stalagmite he'd recently been sitting on, and still he kept slouching.  
  
He didn't think about it until he turned to rest himself on his elbow and found traces of blood on the rocks, here and there, as if somebody had fell. Somebody... wait, no... something.  
  
Henry squinted, wondering how exactly he knew that this substance didn't come from a human being... no, not a person... not an animal, either. Something else.  
  
Henry sat up, peeking over the cave's mouth, to just outside, making sure nobody was coming.  
  
He dabbed up a little of the still-wet blood on his finger and tasted it.  
  
~ 


	43. Chapter 54: FOR EVER AND EVER, or, Show...

Radar ran into the swamp and dragged Hawkeye's folding lawn chair out into the compound, nearly tripping over it seven different ways in his rush to have it set up and pointed in the correct direction before Hawkeye caught up to him.  
  
"Your seat, sir, aisle, as you requested," Radar bowed and gestured grandly to the lawn chair.  
  
"What?" Hawkeye asked, settling himself stiffly on the edge of the lawn chair, "Aisle?"  
  
"Just sit back and relax, sir. The show'll start, soon, and you wouldn't want to have to get up to fluff the pillows midway through."  
  
"Pillows? What pillows?" Hawkeye squinted in thorough confusion, "What /show/?"  
  
"Your theater companion for the evening, sir," Radar grinned, settling Qotenmatch on Hawkeye's lap as he laid back in the lawn chair. Hawkeye picked up the teddy bear and shook his head at it.  
  
"It's a-- it's not-- it's an inanimate object." He protested mildly as Radar ran into the swamp, emerging a few moments later with a martini from the still.  
  
"Refreshment, sir? What show, you asked? It's a Broadway production, in town this one night only: for your pleasure and amusement, I give you..." he spread his arm out, gesturing to the compound that lay out before them, "M*A*S*H: a tragic comedy of love, betrayal, and mistaken identity. A juggling act of epic proportions, never to be seen again, until the next bug-out."  
  
Hawkeye, at this point, gave up protesting that Radar wasn't making any sense, and, Martini in one hand and Chimera in the other, he leaned back to watch.  
  
Radar stepped back a bit, pleased at the effect the shadows made of making the little alcove between the swamp and the signpost a negligible area for anybody walking through the compound. He stepped forward again, back into the shadows.  
  
"I'll be playing the role of narrator in this little production, as well as bringing you, by way of Radar Radio, the bits of the comedy that occur offstage, for your listening convenience."  
  
Hawkeye opened his mouth, trying to think of something to say.  
  
Radar lifted a finger: "Ah-ah! Wait for it! The lights are dimming, the curtain is rising, the show's just ready to start! SSsshhshhhsshh--!!!"  
  
Hawekeye shut his mouth again.  
  
"Our play begins with the tragic hero, Major Frank Marion Burns. You may have heard that all tragic heroes have to have a tragic flaw. Well, our tragic hero IS a tragic flaw."  
  
Hawkeye tilted his head to one side and drank from the martini, not so much as cracking a smile. Radar continued, unphased. This was going to take some work, and some time, and results weren't going to be found at once.  
  
"Through divine agency, our hero has just been informed that his life is in danger from a night-prowling, fly-fishing monster."  
  
On cue, Frank burst from the office doors, screaming "MARGARET! SAVE ME!" pitifully as he ran with a ghostly pallor and a frantic look in his eye across the compound and dove into the head Nurse's tent.  
  
"There goes our hero, selflessly seeking out his lady-love to make sure she's safe from the threat."  
  
Father Mulcahy next peeked his head out of the office doors, then slipped out, heading across the compound toward the Officer's Club, uncertainly, acting out orders he didn't fully understand. He walked as if counting the steps, and stopped just as he became obscured in the shadows of the O.C.  
  
"Oh, and there goes Divine Agency." Radar chuckled.  
  
Mulcahy turned and peered toward the swamp, and the supply tent beyond it.  
  
"And here comes our faithful and dogged Corpsman, Max Klinger, relentlessly pursuing the life-and-death assignment given unto him by the M*A*S*H 4077th's supreme commander, Colonel Sherman Potter." Radar waved his hand out into the light as a signal to the Father, who ran into the compound just as Klinger burst onto the scene, the two running at odd angles on a collision course with one another, Mulcahy aware of Klinger, but not the other way around.  
  
Radar removed his woolen cap, pressing it to his chest and spinning around clockwise as he sang out, "White sheep, white sheep, have you any wool? No ma'am, no ma'am, not at all!" Stopping the spin on a dime, and hissing in a whisper, "Two lies, two wise!" as the chaplain and the corporal collided in the center of the compound.  
  
"Sorry, no, that's okay," they hollered at the same time, picking themselves up and running on their various courses without looking back.  
  
Except that, now, Klinger was heading toward the supply tent, and Mulcahy was running full tilt back to the office.  
  
Radar grinned, and pulled his cap back over the tops of his long ovine ears.  
  
"Or was it the dearly beloved camp Chaplain that the Colonel sent to get the maps of the mine field from his office? Who could tell? For the two were put under the power of a spell from a kindly but fun-loving narrator-- err-- spirit-- who is most definitely /not/ me."  
  
Radar looked up as "Klinger" ran by, putting his finger to his mouth in a 'shh' gesture to Hawkeye, and winking.  
  
"So Divine Agency incarnate in a Section Eight enters the Supply tent, where local surgeon and all around good guy B.J. Hunnicutt and visiting cobweb-sweeper Sidney Freedman are girding themselves for the rescue mission in the minefield.  
  
'Captains? Are you in here?' Divine Agency calls. Of course they are. How could Divine Agency be mistaken?  
  
'Yeah. Did you find the maps?' the doctor replies. Uh-oh!  
  
'Maps?' D.A. asks, not seeing THAT one coming. What'll he do, folks?  
  
'No!' he chooses, the safe answer, always. A safe man, our chaplain. Though hardly any fun sometimes. /I/ woulda said yes. But anyhow, he gets down to the matter at hand:  
  
'Have you seen Colonel Blake?'  
  
'We thought he was with Colonel Potter,' the shrink offers.  
  
'Oh. Um, he is!' Ooh, looks bad for our D.A. 'I mean, he was, but he isn't anymore. He's gone... batty!'  
  
The other two can't be sure how to take that, on a night like this, on a subject like Henry Blake. 'Literally?' they ask.  
  
'No,' Sigh, didn't I say that he was too dull, sometimes? 'I think he went into a kind of rage, like he was talking about with Hawkeye. Colonel Potter told me to tell you guys to get some units of blood over to the Officer's Club, and try to herd him in that direction.'  
  
'What about the lanterns?' The lanterns? What lanterns?  
  
'I'll take care of them,' the D.A. offers up, slipping seamlessly out of a sticky situation. Well done, Padre."  
  
Radar applauded briefly, and Hawkeye, dazed, made a hazy attempt at doing the same, spilling little sloshes of gin on his pants and on Qotenmatch. Neither of which seemed to mind, too much.  
  
Radar hopped briskly to the other side of Hawkeye, leaning over his shoulder and aiming an index finger toward the nurse's tent.  
  
"In this corner, Major Hot Lips Houlihan, the fair maiden, the dedicated nurse, the angel of mercy, all unaware of her fearless leader's foray into the wilds of the minefields to the rescue of three men under his command, carries on business as normal with the nurses she's been selected due to her high rank and sex to lead."  
  
Major Houlihan burst out of the Nurse's tent, "Good! And if I catch you swapping shifts again after /this,/ you'll all be wearing my bootprints!" She turned and looked around.  
  
"She seemed to have heard her beloved Major Burns calling her lovely name to the winds." Radar whispered, "But she doesn't see him, oop!"  
  
Radar shrank back away from the light as Margaret squinted over in their direction. "Or anyone else, I hope!" he hissed. "Shh-shh!" he hushed himself.  
  
Margaret looked wary, but headed over to the office.  
  
"She goes, ever tireless in her devotion to her camp, to deliver documents of utmost importance to her Commanding Officer!"  
  
Margaret pushed open one side of the double doors, and her face grew warm and hopeful as she disappeared inside.  
  
"There," continued Radar, "ruffling through the file cabinets, is our faithful Corpsman, unaware of the mystical spell compounded on him by the spirit-who-is-not-me. She steps toward him.  
  
'I've been looking for you,' she says, not quite wanting to speak. Could it be our Major Houlihan has a confession on her mind?  
  
Father-Mulcahy-Who-Is-Really-Klinger only looks up from his digging for a secand. 'Me, Major? Not under m...'  
  
'I need someone to talk to-- is-- is Colonel Potter in?'  
  
'No, he--'  
  
'Good! I mean, I need to /talk/ to you, you know?'  
  
'No, not really, Major, but go ahead... not under f...'  
  
'It's about Henry--'  
  
'You bet it is--'  
  
'I think I'm in love with him.'  
  
'You WHAT?'  
  
'Oh, I know it's wrong... but I can't help it-- it's like I'm drawn to him, and I just can't help it-- what's that you've got there?'  
  
'Under b?' For 'Boom,' silly. 'These are the maps of the minefield, Major. I'm not supposed to tell you this, but it seems the love of your life, or, well, whatever, just went off in there. But don't worry, Colonel Potter's doing everything possible to find him.'  
  
Ah, Hot Lips sits, in shock, at this news! It seems that the love of our hero has been abandoned, and replaced by--" Radar himself looked surprised at what Bantelhopp related to him, his jaw dropping as he turned to face Hawkeye, "A love spell! A vampire love spell! Do you believe it? I sure don't. But it sure makes for good drama, huh?  
  
'Well, what can I do?' she asks desperately.  
  
'Um. Well, gee, Major, I guess you can take these maps to the Colonel, and I'll go help Captains Hunnicutt and Freedman.'  
  
'No sooner said then done!'"  
  
Margaret was out the door of the office, arms laden with maps, in a split second, and hustled through and out of the camp, Klinger-as-Mulcahy coming out not far behind her.  
  
Radar turned back to watch 'Mulcahy' cross the compound. "Well, I guess if there's another spell out there, we don't really need this one," he snapped his fingers with dramatic flair, and Klinger resumed his own appearance. He turned as 'Klinger' came out of the supply tent, laden with lanterns, "Or this one." Again, a snap of the fingers, and Mulcahy was himself again.  
  
Mulcahy slipped into the shadows where Radar and Hawkeye were hiding.  
  
"What am I supposed to do with these?" he whispered in desperation, watching Margaret hurry by with the maps.  
  
Radar grabbed Father Mulcahy by the shoulders, pulling him close, out of the earshot of his 'audience', and whispered some last-minute improvisations into the Priest's ear before shoving him out into the light towards Klinger, who was exiting the office in a daze, having left the new roster on Colonel Potter's desk.  
  
"Aahg!" Mulcahy shouted in surprise, but hastened toward the Corporal, trying not to look panicked.  
  
Klinger's eyes lit up as he saw the Priest, "Father! It's you!" He ran forward, "What are you doing here?"  
  
Mulcahy got over a momentary hesitation, and answered, "What does it look like? I'm bringing these lanterns for Colonel Potter!"  
  
"But you--" Klinger protested, "Here, give those to me, you go on ahead to the Officer's Club and have a drink-- on me!"  
  
The corpsman stole the lanterns off the priest without him having to do much more than shift a shoulder, "Well, thank you, my son--" he spoke slowly and baffledly. Klinger shot off, and Mulcahy turned and gave an impressed look off into the shadows, hoping Radar would catch it, then he started towards the officers club, stopping a moment to stare at the arch of Nehi bottles that stood erected over the entryway, smiling a bit despite himself, and stepping inside.  
  
"See that?" Radar pointed out to Hawkeye. "I put a lot into making that thing-- though Qot and Ban helped, too, didn't you, guys? And people can really tell... everybody stops to look at it... everybody likes it... except, maybe for our tragic hero..." He giggled.  
  
"But anyhow, now, over Radar Radio, we join our fearless leader on the very edge of the wide plain of death that spreads from camp's edge to the mountainside. It's a dark and bleary night, here in Korea, folks, and the old Colonel's face is set with determination to get his men back alive from the sad fate that could await them among the mines! Oh, look: he hears someone coming behind him, a crunching of gravel, a rustling of paper.  
  
'It's high time you found those maps, corporal--' Oops. 'Major Houlihan, what are you doing here?' He /tries/ to put on his just-out-for-a-walk face, but it's no use!  
  
'I know, Colonel. I brought the maps.'  
  
'Damn. I told those jokers not to tell anybody, too.'  
  
'Don't worry, I think I'm the only one they told. And, frankly, I'm glad they told me,' our winsome starlet admits, all doe-eyed for the safe return of her beau!  
  
'Well, I'm not tickled. If the whole camp finds out we've got three men missing, we'll have a swarm over here so loud I won't be able to think straight.'  
  
'Three? There are three now?'  
  
'Yeah,' the weary Colonel rubs his eyes up under his glasses, taking one of the maps from Margaret. 'Colonel Blake went out there, too.'  
  
'Yes, I know, but who else?'  
  
'Mulcahy and O'Reilley, as far as I can figure.'  
  
'Wait a second. I saw Radar sneaking around the swamp just now, and---' she looks down at the maps in her hand, gotten from John P. Mulcahy himself.  
  
'I hope you don't mind, sir, I gave Major Houlihan the maps so that I could help bring up lanterns,' Why, look who it is! Klinger!  
  
'/You/ gave me the maps--?" Margaret sputters, unsure.  
  
Klinger's lanterns clatter to the ground and he starts setting them up to light them.  
  
'Well, good news, Corporal,' the Colonel announces, 'Looks like our search is down to two.'  
  
'I know, sir, isn't it great?' Klinger looks up with a big smile. 'I saw Father Mulcahy over in the compound, bringing these lamps up here for ya, and so I-- sir?" Klinger stops in the middle of his story, noticing the confusion in his leader's face.  
  
'Make that one...' Our Colonel's voice is heavy with annoyance at being so out of the loop, and he turns on Margaret, 'Major Houlihan, go back to the supply tent and see what's taking Hunnicutt and Freedman so blessed long! Klinger, get on those lamps!'  
  
'Getting, sir,' our dogged corpsman obeys, as Margaret-- well, wait for it!"  
  
Hawkeye turned his head to look where he expected Major Houlihan to come back to camp.  
  
"Good guess, Hawkeye, but not quite! Over--" he ran behind him again, taking the captain's head in his hands and turning it toward the edge of the swamp, beyond which, pre-op was just visible, as well as a little bit of op.  
  
B.J. and Sidney walked slowly out into the compound, wheeling a cart between them that held four units of blood.  
  
"Why do I keep getting the feeling," Sidney asked, looking around at the darkness of the compound, "That we're in some kind of old corny horror film?"  
  
B.J. opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off by Major Houlihan's heated arrival.  
  
"What are you two idiots doing?" she hollered softly, gritting her teeth and swinging her arm around with the force of an Olympic discus thrower to point in the direction of the minefield, "Colonel Potter's waiting for you, out there!"  
  
The two men stopped the cart, Hunnicutt braking it slowly to a halt, giving the cart a surgeon's dose of leeway so as not to jostle the cargo.  
  
"Colonel Potter?" he asked of the fuming nurse, "But Klinger--"  
  
"Klinger! Don't you dare try to pin this one on him! He's up there /right now/ working his tail off, while you two are down here--" she sputtered, gesturing at the cart that usually stayed within the confines of the operating ward, "What the heck are you two DOING, anyway?"  
  
"Klinger said--"  
  
"Klinger said! Well, you've got an answer for everything, haven't you? I just /left/ Corporal Klinger, and he didn't have ANY idea where you two were! Now, Hunnicutt, I know you haven't known him long, but YOU, Sidney! I expected that our poor Colonel Blake might have meant something to YOU, at least."  
  
Sidney tried next, "But Klinger said that Colonel Blake--"  
  
Margaret pushed her hands forcefully onto her hips, giving B.J. her most reproachful look, "Yes! Colonel Blake is out there, somewhere, and here you two are, fooling around with goodness-knows-what!"  
  
B.J. lifted his eyebrows, his forehead wrinkling as he took in this new piece of information. "Out there-- you mean--"  
  
"You imbecile! Of course!" Margaret ranted, "Now put that tray away and get up there!"  
  
The captains, duly intimidated, lifted their hands in surrender, then went to cart the blood back to its storage. Sidney looked across to B.J., "Back to the lantern business, then, hm?"  
  
B.J. nodded helplessly as they wheeled out of the compound.  
  
Margaret threw her hands up into the air in frustration, and then pressed them down to her sides, backing up as she looked out worriedly into the hills, taking a moment to herself.  
  
Radar leaned over Hawkeye's chair, watching the bewitched Major and then impatiently leaning further to peer at Hawkeye's watch. "Come on, Father," he urged under his breath, "Now's the time, the show must go on!"  
  
"It's not bad." Hawkeye spoke, his first words in a while, his voice tainted with a hint of the familiar lilt the loss of which had been so great a torture to the penitent Pooka. Radar turned and grinned, catching a wink from Qotenmatch. "You ain't seen nothing yet!" he promised slyly: "Act two!" He gestured with the grandeur of a parting red velvet curtain to the sparkling arch over the door of the Officer's Club. Strange. The lights of the campsite hadn't changed in number or intensity, that is, if you discounted the lanterns being currently lit on the edge of the minefield, yet, you might swear that the Nehi-Bottle Arch was sparkling more intensely than it was half an hour ago.  
  
The door swung open, missing the edge of the closest bottle by a matter of inches. The Arch remained intact and glittering as Father Mulcahy stepped out, his eyes quickly scanning for-- Ah!  
  
"Divine Agency finds her, he has a message! A message of new hope, hope of love... love... slaked, even in the cold Korean night!" Radar narrated enthusiastically as he crouched down next to the supine Hawkeye.  
  
"Major Houlihan?" Father Mulcahy came quietly behind her, tapping her on the shoulder and causing her to spin around and nearly snap to attention, embarrassed at having been caught in such a daydream-- nightdream-- whatever.  
  
"Oh, it's you, father," she relaxed. "Relaxed?" questioned Radar, with a low chuckle, "Or just remembered that she doesn't have to salute a Lieutenant?"  
  
"Yes, well, Margaret, I've got to talk to you about something." He stated, determinedly, though his voice wavered slightly in the tone he normally took when about to address something quite serious.  
  
"Stagefright," Radar nudged Hawkeye in the ribs playfully.  
  
"It's about Colonel Blake." Mulcahy finally spit out, looking as awkward as a bear in a bow tie, reaching out an arm and gently leading Margaret out of the center of the compound.  
  
Margaret fidgeted, following suit with the Father's nervous attitude. "Yes, Father?"  
  
"The starlet waits for the moral reprimand she knows she deserves for giving into her affection toward a creature of the night!" Radar dramatized wildly, sneaking around in front of Hawkeye again, and pantomiming the conversation with great exaggeration as it went on in the background.  
  
"I just now saw him---"  
  
"Saw him? He's back?"  
  
"Back?"  
  
Margaret stared at him worriedly, "You told me he--"  
  
"Oh! Yes, back. Pardon me, Major, if I'm not quite all here. It's been a- - stressful night."  
  
"For all of us, Father," Margaret agreed, "But Henr--- err, Colonel Blake! You saw him! Is he all right?"  
  
"Not quite right, I'd say... quite... distraught, in fact! He wants to talk with you."  
  
Margaret bristled with timidity, lost under a wave of pride at the Father's news. She brushed a strand of hair up behind her ear, "Well, I suppose it's only natural... a human being... a man... in such a dire situation! Can you imagine it?"  
  
Father Mulcahy leaned back and lifted his right hand to scratch his upper left arm, made slightly uncomfortable by the earthy womanly essences the Major was oozing. "I think not." He coughed.  
  
Major Houlihan straightened her back, remembering to whom she was speaking in time to sputter, "Oh, um, well, yes... tell him I'll be waiting for him in my tent, when he wants to come talk."  
  
Mulcahy paused, staring into the shadows toward the Changeling he knew was hiding there, hoping there was some good reason that he was attempting to arrange an assignation between the smitten nurse and the bloodthirsty fiend.  
  
"Corporal Fool, Corporal Jester, what is this quest? Worry not, Father, it's all for the best," Radar rhymed in a whisper. "All right, Major," the chaplain reluctantly nodded, "I'll let him know."  
  
Margaret turned and shied away toward her tent, fingering the seam of her pants leg antsily, "Well, I'd better-- Oh! Colonel Potter! I'll be back in a few moments, I'd better let him know about this. I mean, that everything's all right, of course, not-- well-- good night, Father!"  
  
"Good night, Major." Mulcahy shook his head as he watched Margaret bolt off, leaning up against the wall of the Officer's club for a brief second, before spotting B.J. and Sidney. The two were emerging into the compound again, now burdened down with lanterns, and headed across in the wake of the head nurse. The chaplain stepped in to intercept them.  
  
"Captains? What are you doing?"  
  
The pair stopped short, and, after a brief glance to one another, B.J. answered, "Well, looking for you, among other things."  
  
"What for? Did you find Colonel Blake?"  
  
"The question on everybody's lips. No, we figured we'd find him when we found you. But we figured you were out in the middle of nowhere, Minesville."  
  
"No... is that what the lamps are for? Did you get the blood over to the Officer's Club?" he continued, eagerly.  
  
"No," Sidney replied, in amused frustration, "Were you in on that plan, too? Major Houlihan told us to give it the boot, and head out to the Western Front for operation spotlight."  
  
"Oh, well... the Major hasn't been quite herself tonight, she's going to be resting in her quarters for a while to try to wait it out."  
  
"I'm beginning to wish I could wait out the entire night," B.J. smiled, "If I wasn't so curious to see how it ends. I think you were off a little, earlier, Sidney, this is no horror flick... I've seen 'em all. This is a flat-out, knock-down comedy. The finest kind."  
  
"So, we're back to the old hemoglobin, boss?" Sidney did a poor but amusing enough impression of his favorite of the three stooges, and B.J. responded in kind: "Of course, you knucklehead!"  
  
They started to lug the lanterns back to the supply tent, and Father Mulcahy only paused a second to wonder at the arch before ducking back into the O.C.  
  
The compound was empty a moment, causing Radar to leap up from the seat he'd briefly taken to watch the chaos unfold.  
  
"An interlude! Complete with singing, dancing, and--- oop, nevermind, back to your seats, folks, the show goes on!"  
  
On cue, Margaret ran back into the compound, a gruff-looking Colonel Potter in tow.  
  
"Calvin Coolidge keel over if this place won't be the end of me!" he ranted, "Not to say I'm not glad that everyone's back alright, but--" he cut off, staring momentarily at the beacon of glittering Nehi bottles that stood over the O.C. doors. "I could use a drink-- Margaret? Major? You all right? You look like you've got ants in the old attic!"  
  
He'd noticed, of course, the Major looking around in nervous expectation.  
  
"What's keeping him, anyway?" Radar commented, not, of course, to Hawkeye, but to the chimerae. Hawkeye turned his head in wonder from the show as Radar talked to himself: "Oh. Ohhhh.... Oh! Well, no, I didn't know that either."  
  
Radar turned to the anticipating look Hawkeye was giving him, and, leaning closer, whispered, "My sources back in Washington tell me that small doses of Fae blood can cause--" he giggled, "some rather /odd/ effects on the Corpses," he frowned slightly, turning aside and murmuring, "Geez, Ban, can't you think of anything /nicer/ to call Henry?"  
  
"Oh, me, sir?" Margaret spurted, "Oh, I'm just /fine/ sir, I was just..." she craned her neck to look around, "Eager for you to look over the new roster I made up, why don't you go look it over now?"  
  
"Now, Margaret? It's--" Colonel Potter sighed, "Well, I suppose a C.O.'s work is never done. I'll go look at it. Good evening, Major Houlihan," he nodded politely and mosied toward his office.  
  
Margaret waited until the Colonel was out of sight before running this way and that in the compound, wringing her hands anxiously.  
  
"A motion catches her attention. Is it he?" Radar whispered, as Margaret's head, indeed, snapped up and to one side.  
  
She let out a little exasperated grunt and tried to make herself look busy as she found it was, in fact, Hunnicutt and Freedman, wheeling around the same medical cart as earlier.  
  
She ran back and forth like a frantic dog on too short a leash, not wanting to leave her front door, but desperately trying to look like she's not--  
  
"Waiting for someone, Margaret?" Sidney smiled, recognizing the quirkily stifled expectation of a lusty encounter he'd seen displayed on at least several occasions prior to tonight.  
  
"If you're going to tell us to go fetch your lamps again," B.J. warned, "I may just have to quit this war."  
  
"No!" Margaret yelled. Too quickly. "No, Captain," she started again, composing herself. "That won't be necessary."  
  
"Give Frank my regards," Sidney nodded politely, tipping his cap with a playful touch as they wheeled past.  
  
"I'm NOT waiting for -- Frank-- I'm just going to visit the ladies' latrine, thank you very much." Margaret protested, in her agitated state fully expecting them to have accused her of waiting for Henry Blake. She lifted her head haughtily and stormed off in the indicated direction.  
  
The two shook their heads and continued their course, wheeling the cart into the shadows behind the Officer's Club, preferring to use the back loading door. Margaret ran back to the proximity of her door and smirked.  
  
"Our heroine shines with pride. She thinks on how she's got all her campmates fooled. They think they're so smart, they think they understand how she works, but she's got a secret known only to herself and the priest she's entrusted it to-- And does she have any room left in her womanly affections for our tragic hero? She turns to her tent, and wavers on the threshold. Of course, she's still fond of him, she thinks, as she shuts the door and reaches for the light. But when there's a shuffle in the darkness, a frightful sound, whose name jumps to mind? Well, certainly not that of Frank Marion Burns.  
  
'Hello? I'm here--' she calls.  
  
A further step sounds in the tent's shadows. She thinks it sounds weak, uncertain, indirect, and reaches out with her arms.  
  
'Oh, no, now, it'll be okay, I'm here, now."  
  
She comes upon a figure, and wraps him up in her arms-- but-- what's this! Shorter than she thought, warmer than she expected, and--  
  
'Margaret,' the dark figure speaks!"  
  
"Frank!" Margaret's voice could be heard faintly even from where Hawkeye and Radar were sitting.  
  
"'Frank!' she says! 'What are you doing here?'" The Pooka narrator continued.  
  
"'Who'd you /think/ it was, Margaret?'  
  
'Well, of course /you/, Frank, but what's the matter?' Now she asks in a hurry. She's got a date tonight, after all.  
  
'He's out to get me! Colonel Blake!'  
  
'Frank, that's ridiculous.'  
  
'It's not!' Our hero cries.  
  
'Frank, get out of here. Go to the officer's club. Father Mulcahy is there. Have a drink with him-- you'll feel safe with him, won't you?'  
  
'Margaret! Let me stay here! Please?'" At this point, Hawkeye snorted as he watched Radar try to do an impression of Frank Burns, sucking in his upper lip and making his chin quiver in a particularly Burnsian manner.  
  
"'Frank... it'll be /much/ safer with the Father, wouldn't it? I would go, but I've got so much... paperwork to catch up on! You wouldn't believe it. The war must go on, Frank. But you-- you're a surgeon! What would the war do without you?'  
  
'I am kind of indispensable, I guess...'  
  
'Of course you are. Go where you'll be safe, then. We wouldn't want to see you be hurt.' She knows her lover well, and all the right buttons to push to get him out of her hair, too!" Radar giggled, then brought his face to a humorous mockery of Frank's straight and somber expression.  
  
'Right! For the good of the outfit, and for the welfare of the United States Army!'"  
  
Frank's beady little eyes appeared in a crack as the door opened, and, looking around and not finding anyone to see his cowardly retreat, he sped out the door and snuck toward the officer's club. He hesitated in front of the glass arch, seeming uncomfortable with its presence there, then, leaning to one side, Radar and Hawkeye could clearly see the whites of his eyes gleaming in the shimmering light of the construction as he widened his eyes in fear.  
  
"Someone's coming!" Radar hissed.  
  
Frank, for his part having independently come to this conclusion, jumped back from the entryway to the O.C. and hid around the corner.  
  
Sidney pushed the door open and waited for B.J. to stroll out before following. "So, now to--" he paused as he shook his head and smiled at wonder at the arch as he passed underneath to join the surgeon, who was in a similar state.  
  
"Uh, to find Henry, right." He finished up.  
  
Hunnicutt nodded, "And to get him back here. We don't need him going-- uh-- crazy in the middle of the festivities tonight, after all."  
  
"It seems kind of strange, doesn't it? Setting this all up, I mean?"  
  
"It's been a strange-- day and a half? Is that all? Funny how you get used to things. One night you find out there are such things as vampires, the next night you're organizing a midnight snack fit for a count."  
  
"So, will Colonel Potter approve of all this?"  
  
"I'm not sure, but I saw him heading to his office, earlier, if we can hurry this process along, he might not have to find out at all."  
  
"And Margaret?"  
  
"You heard the excuse she gave the Father... she'll be 'sick in bed' until long after it's over."  
  
"Well, you know how high up in the air Frank'll flip if HE finds out."  
  
B.J. lifted a hand in a calming gesture, "Margaret will take care of Frank. He won't know what's going on until it's too late-- and then, what can he do?"  
  
"I guess you're right." Sidney paused. "And you're sure no one's going to miss 'em?"  
  
B.J. shook his head, "Nah, nobody likes that type, anyway."  
  
Sidney chuckled. "Right. So, to round up Colonel Blake?"  
  
"Yep. I guess first we should make sure he's not around the post-op. Last thing we need is for him to go crazy on one of the boys in there, they've all lost enough blood as it is."  
  
"Not to mention he'd ruin his appetite," Sidney quipped as they headed out of the compound.  
  
"Uh, oh..." Radar whispered, intent on the action.  
  
Frank leapt out from the shadows in which he'd lately hidden himself, his face white as a ghost. "Those... those... ghouls!" he squeaked faintly, and then, looking plaintively toward Margaret's tent, he whimpered and bolted in the opposite direction, headed full-tilt for Colonel Potter's office.  
  
"The plot, it's discovered by our tragic hero, Frank Burns." Radar intoned with a deep seriousness. "But what plot? An egregious use of medical supplies to lend aid and comfort to mankind's longtime enemy? No. His eyes have been veiled by magics, the plan he sees laid out ahead, far different from that of anybody else, seems far more sinister and terrifying.  
  
Our fearless leader, all unaware of the forces running rampant in his camp, looks over our dedicated head nurse's paperwork, and doesn't stop when Frank comes in in a tizzy. After all, Frank Burns' normal state is somewhere between tizzy and huff.  
  
'Colonel Potter!' he cries, 'Woe is me! My lady-love doth lie in wait with butcher Hunnicutt and headshrink Freedman, and plots my downfall to the vampire! In case I do not die tonight, drained of my life-blood as they all plan for me, I'll never again betray my sweet Louise, who waits her husband's triumphant return from war, with no idea what horrific dangers he faces, and who, if she but knew, would wail long into the night for her Frank Burns, so nearly lost!'  
  
'Dear lad,' our brave commander replies, 'Thy brains are addled. Return you to thy swamp and let the wiles of Morpheus bear away these evil omens.'  
  
'Alas! I am abandoned!'  
  
'Good night, Frank.'"  
  
The last line was delivered in such a deliberate, direct, and Colonel- Potter-Esque tone, cutting through the flowery prose that the Pooka had previously been putting into the unbearably banal mouth of Frank Burns, that Hawkeye was forced to writhe with the force of a snort of laughter that bubbled up from within him.  
  
Radar squirmed slightly as he watched the painful looking attempt, but bit his lip down and looked over to the Great Arch of Nehi, confident that, if he did his part, it would do its. It sparkled at him in approbation, and Bantelhopp sneezed. It was good.  
  
"To review:" Radar took a deep breath, "the doctor and the psy-chi-atrist think the vampire's about to go crazy, the head nurse thinks that the vampire's already crazy-- about her, she thought she told the father that she was crazy about /him/, but she really told the corpsman who's trying to get folks to think HE's crazy. The commanding officer thinks the whole CAMP is crazy, and Frank Burns is in fear for his life. In other words, it's just your typical night at the M*A*S*H 4077th. In addition, the whole rest of the team is brewing up a night of festivities and celebrations for the return of their lately late but just returned Colonel Blake, who, by the way, hasn't returned yet, but will, in just a few minutes."  
  
On cue, Henry stumbled into the compound, face flushed (for a corpse) and looking contentedly confused about the world.  
  
"Or, you know, now," Radar commented, and Henry wandered toward them. Radar ducked, seeming to think himself and Hawkeye finally discovered, until the Colonel finally paused at the signpost and peered at it.  
  
"Psst," Radar whispered to Hawkeye, and nudging him gently, he pointed in the opposite direction, where they could now see Frank shuffling across the compound, his eyes shifting maniacally back and forth as he tried with visible effort to keep his cool.  
  
"Excuse ME, sir," Henry addressed the signpost, his speech patterns weighted differently than normal, "Have you SEEN the v-I--p tent?"  
  
On the other side of the swamp, Frank uttered a shriek generally characteristic of small female children, and dove through the door of the surgeon's tent, "Not likely to stop until he reaches the safety of the dark spot under his cot." Radar whispered cheerfully.  
  
Henry, for his part, lifted an arm in surprise at the sign-post's reply. "Well, I know it's no four-STAR hotel, but, geez, it's NOT that BAD. That is, if it hasn't, hadn't, doesn't, didn't, um, one of those, have to seem to have run off, somewhere. Too bad, I could use a place to-- to lay down a second, someplace that wasn't spinning around so fast."  
  
Henry paused a second and blinked at the signpost. "Yes, sir, of course, General, and may I SAY that's a very lovely kitten you've got there."  
  
"Colonel Blake? Hey, you are back! I thought I heard your voice." Klinger had come around from putting away lanterns and changing into a floor-length party gown for the evening's festivities.  
  
Henry hustled over and began wandering around Klinger in a circle. "Oh, yes, um, young lady, and thank you, I was beginning to think I WAS the only one hearing it." He looked over pensively into the mountains, "And would YOU mind slowing down a bit, I'm having trouble keeping up."  
  
Klinger's face scrunched up as he watched the obviously impaired Brujah babble. "I'm not going anywhere, Colonel," he reminded him. "You don't /smell/ like you've gotten into your liquor cabinet, already." He mused.  
  
"Oh, yeah," Henry stopped his wandering, flailing his arms as if to keep from falling over, "Don't you remember what they taught me, first day of med school? Always read the label before taking anything. Whew!" he shook his head. "Do you KNOW where the v-Ip tent went to? I could lie down for a year."  
  
Klinger looked concerned, and pointed over to the row of four tents lining the side of the compound, "Third from the left," he reminded Henry, then whistling gently, "You really are bombed, aren't you, sir?"  
  
Henry peered over at the line of tents, murmuring, "No, no, I don't THINK the bombs liked me much. Not that I'm COMPLAINING." He shook his head. "Third... thanks, honey."  
  
Klinger squinted at the affectionate term, and lifting his skirts up out of the dust, shook his head and headed toward the Officer's club. His concerns faded a bit as he smiled broadly up at the arch he passed underneath to enter.  
  
Henry, meantime, regarded the line of tents coolly. "Alright... one two, five six, eight, twelve... Come on, guys, no fair switching places." His face contorted in an overly thoughtful gesture, and he finally picked out 'the third tent from the left', which happened, after all, to be the third from the right. He approached on a jagged path, mumbling with muddled ire about whoever planted the cactus garden out here. "Guards, guards, there were supposed to be guards?" He asked, rather than stated. "Oh. There you are," he leaned down and spoke to a rock near the doorpost. "I'm GOING in NOW." He nodded, "Thank you."  
  
As he was conversing with the rock, the door to Major Margaret Houlihan's door opened, and she looked out into the compound, whispering, "Colonel Blake?"  
  
Henry stood up again, popping into view all of a sudden and looking around for whoever called him, "Yo?" he asked.  
  
Margaret nearly melted, once she got over the surprise of his sudden appearance. "Oh, poor thing, you've been under so much stress... you look terrible. Come inside."  
  
"Oh, good," Henry mumbled, taking a few tries to get through the doorway, "It's not just MY imagination..."  
  
The tent's door had no sooner shut than Klinger re-emerged from the Officer's Club, calling back inside. "It all looks great! I'll go get the banner!"  
  
The door swung shut behind him, just missing the edge of the bottled arch, but not causing the least tremor in the structure. He was headed over toward the swamp, when B.J. and Sidney, having sported him, ran out from the operating theater.  
  
"Hey, Klinger!" Sidney shouted.  
  
"Klinger, wait up," B.J. added, as the three came to a halt in the center of the compound, "You seen Henry around?"  
  
Klinger's large eyebrows lifted impressively. "Yeah, looks like he started the party without us, though, he was really smashed!"  
  
The other two looked at one another. "Klinger..." B.J. started.  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Remember that kind of-- fury-- that the Colonel's been subject to recently?"  
  
"Remember?!" Klinger asked incredulously, remembering very well being flung halfway across O.R. It was only after his indignation was subdued that the implications of what was being said sunk in.  
  
"Oh, god." He mumbled.  
  
"Yes. We're hopefully going to find him and get him some blood before he decides he needs to take some on his own."  
  
"Well, when I saw him he was looking for the VIP tent. Said he needed to lie down a while."  
  
B.J. let out a breath of relief. "Then we're fine! Let's go get him." And without further ado, they headed for the VIP tent.  
  
Meantime, a murmur was rising in the camp's atmosphere. "Revellers!" Radar whispered, nudging Hawkeye to pull the lawn chair closer to the edge of the swamp, further into the shadows as nurses and enlisted men started to wander, first singly, then in clusters, toward the gleaming beacon in front of the O.C.  
  
"What do you mean? There are more than two of us here!" B.J. insisted, "Let us in."  
  
The guards at the VIP tent door looked at one another, "Um, we were told two, sir, no more, no less. Orders are orders, sir." One of them cringed.  
  
Frank's head poked out of the Swamp, and he clutched two crosses close to himself  
  
"Hey! It's Major Burns!" the cry arose from the slightly inebriated crowd, "Come on, Major, let's party!"  
  
"Alright, fine," B.J. flattened a hand into the air, and turned with a sticky-sweet paternal tone, "Klinger, wait outside for us, we TWO are going inside." He turned back to the guards, "Better?"  
  
As the two ducked in, with approval of the guards, of course, Henry came stumbling out of Major Houlihan's tent, "Pardon me, Miss, I think the bellboy gave me the wrong room." He tried to straighten his shirt and put himself back together, but he was suddenly caught up in a whirling horde of people, which, as Radar pointed out to Hawkeye, probably didn't help his changeling-blood-induced hallucinations any. In fact, he began to look thoroughly ill as the crowd helped him along toward the O.C. "Somebody drop the anchor on this thing!" he called weakly, to the delight and amusement of the crowd. The sea of blood that rushed around him also did wonders for reminding him how hungry he was. What he wouldn't give for a nectarine cobbler.  
  
"He's not here!" B.J. hollered, coming out of the tent, his voice loud to be heard over the increased crowd in the compound, "You could have told us he wasn't here," he admonished the guards.  
  
"You didn't ask, sir." One of them reminded him.  
  
"Alright, fine, I'm asking now. Do you know where he is?"  
  
The two guards pointed in the direction of Major Houlihan's tent.  
  
Frank spotted Henry across the compound, and tried to resist against the troupe of half-drunk privates who were trying to drag him toward the large glass arch. "You can't do this to an officer of the United States Army!" he cried.  
  
"Major Houlihan!" Klinger, B.J. and Sidney all shouted out at once, the same thought occurring to all of them, namely, that their head nurse was at this very moment in the process of becoming deceased.  
  
Margaret peeked out of her tent, pulling her slinky silk nightgown tighter around herself as she saw the crowd that had accumulated and attempted to appear sheveled after Henry's abrupt disappearance.  
  
Frank strained against the arms that carried him along, reaching toward the other Major. "Margaret! How could you?"  
  
"Nothing happened, Frank, I swear!"  
  
"How could you let me die like this, all the way over here in Korea?!"  
  
"What do you mean, let you die?"  
  
"What do YOU mean, nothing happened?"  
  
The swamp rat, the shrink and the section eight couldn't hold in smiles at the lovers' conversation.  
  
"Oh, look!" Klinger noted, "There he goes!" Pointing, of course, to the dazed and befuddled Henry Blake, pushed along at the head of the group, followed by a chorus of "For He's A Jolly Good Vampire."  
  
B.J. nodded, "He looks on the edge... we'd better go around back and get those drinks ready for him when he gets there."  
  
The three ran around to the back of the building, and Margaret and Frank were swept up into the front door via the current of party-goers.  
  
Colonel Potter, clipboard under his arm, watched the last of the people head into the club, shaking his head and smiling widely. "Good to see everybody getting along so well." He mused to himself, and made his own entrance, making the party and the performance complete.  
  
"Down curtain!" Radar announced, parading into the center ring of the compound as if it were his own personal circus, which, of course, it was.  
  
"Please, ladies and gentlemen, hold your applause until the very end," he proclaimed to the as yet still and silent Captain Pierce. "The Cast of Characters!"  
  
~ 


	44. Chapter 55: HALELUJAH!

Radar positioned himself stage left of the great glass arch. It nearly radiated all the sparkling light it could catch, at this point. The Pooka made a grand gesture to the door, and, as foretold, it opened, Father Mulcahy stepping out.  
  
"As Divine Agency, and in the undeniably vital role of my handy assistant, Father Mulcahy!"  
  
The Father, confused, walked toward Radar. "Did it work?" he whispered.  
  
"We'll find out," Radar replied under his breath, keeping his mouth planted in a showman's grin as he announced, "As our leading lady-- our only lady, if you don't count Klinger--"  
  
Father Mulcahy stepped aside, and found himself staring slack-jawed at the gleaming bottle-tower as Major Houlihan stormed out after him. "I thought priests were supposed to take a vow of silence! Do you know what flak I'm getting in there? The--"  
  
"Major Margaret, "Hot Lips" Houlihan!" Radar concluded, cutting off the head nurse's rant, which died out as she too became awed by the sight of the sparkling archway.  
  
"As our fearless leader, and all around good egg,"  
  
Colonel Potter came out of the front door, "Margaret, I wanted to thank you for the new schedule! You must have worked forever on it, why don't you come back in and re--"  
  
"Colonel Sherman T. Potter!" Radar hollered, catching the C.O's attention.  
  
"Radar! I thought YOU were supposed to be in bed, sick!"  
  
Radar shrugged, "Oh, no, sir, I've been taking care of Hawkeye all night."  
  
"But Hawkeye's supposed to be taking care of-- Oh, nevermind," he grinned and chuckled, unable to stay mad in the glow of the wonderous arch of Nehi.  
  
"As our tireless corpsman, who'd stop at nothing to help a friend or get out of the army--" Radar snapped his fingers toward the door and produced Corporal Klinger.  
  
"Colonel Potter! Let me buy you a drink, we deserve it after all that scare, huh--" he was prattling cheerfully, only to be cut off with an announcement of "Corporal Maxwell Q. Klinger!" from Radar.  
  
"Section eight, head to toe," he mumbled his automatic epithet in confusion as he looked up to see what the others were gaping at, and began to gape, himself.  
  
"And, of course, as the pluggers-up-of-the-thousand-holes-of-a-sinking- ship, those tireless medical men," Radar grinned, as B.J. and Sid came out, looking relieved.  
  
"Thanks, Klinger. Don't know what we'd have done without--" B.J. started, then stopped as he saw the congregation outside, which Sidney had noted with surprise on first exiting the building.  
  
"Doctors B.J. Hunnicutt and Sidney Freedman!" Radar applauded gently, encouraging the same action in his audience as the two joined the staring throng.  
  
"And, of course, a night in Korea wouldn't be a night in Korea without its very own denizen of the night--"  
  
Henry came out, quickly quaffing down his third unit of blood from a brandy snifter, and holding another full one quite contentedly in his opposite hand.  
  
"Thanks, guys, I feel better already." He blinked heavily, then widened his eyes, "But, boy, am I ever in for the hangover of a lifetime."  
  
"Lieutenant Colonel Henry Blake!" Radar yelped, and Henry lifted the empty glass to his ear, trying to stop the echoing, nauseating sound.  
  
"Oh, jeez, Radar, not so-- Hey. That's kind of nice," he said plainly of the great arch, expressing about one one-hundredth of what the gang was feeling from taking in the sight.  
  
"And last, but not least! The cowardly, quaking, tragic hero, our very own- -"  
  
"YOU CAN'T EAT ME YOU SICK LITTLE WHATEVER YOU ARE!!!" Frank hollered, thrusting two crosses out ahead of him as he cringed away from Henry, who, thanks to the arch's pleasantly soothing effects, hardly made any note of him.  
  
The door which Frank had shoved open swung within millimeters of the nearest bottle, but shook it not at all. As it swung shut, and he still stood in its way, it collided with him with a dull thud.  
  
"Major Frank Burns!" Radar announced, and the world went silent. The 'cast' shook their heads as the thud and the announcement seemed to break loose some sort of tension that was holding the earth together, and for a moment everyone felt a little lighthearted and giddy, with the exception of Frank, who looked up at the pile of bottles over him, and whimpered in the split second it took for the perfectly steady arch to shake once, twice, then all seem to contend to fall directly on his head.  
  
Miraculously, none of the bottles broke. No dangerous shards were formed. Frank, despite being terrified and mildly bludgeoned, was fine.  
  
At the clatter, the silence extended back into the Officer's club, and everybody stood back in a kind of ring around the room to look out the door.  
  
It was pure silence for a second. Then, someone giggled. Then, two someones chuckled. Soon, even Margaret and Colonel Potter were stifling a huge case of the chortles.  
  
Over the roar of the crowd, from a corner of darkness beside the smiling Swamp, there soared the distinctive and hearty guffaw of the Glamourous Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce.  
  
~ 


	45. Chapter 56: Nine Hundred And Ninety Nin...

The music from the jukebox droned on into the night, and from time to time the Officer's Club shook with laughter as a cluster formed around Hawkeye to listen to his raucous tales of the night's entertainment.  
  
"Radar?" a nurse called out, "Our Radar, did all THAT?"  
  
Radar turned aside, grinning bashfully, "Nah, must've been another Radar..."  
  
Henry smirked at the fables of his odd behavior as they worked their way around the room a couple times and managed to sound more impressive each time they came back around to him. He smiled his goofy little smile, accepted the toasts of good health, and kept his arms firmly planted around Leslie Scorch, enjoying a moment of feeling full, only mildly intoxicated, and rather less predatory than of late.  
  
A lull came in between the songs as nickels began to run out, and Hawkeye hopped up onto a chair, shouting, "Here's to Lieutenant Colonel Henry Blake!"  
  
Henry respectfully pulled away from Leslie a bit, keeping a hand on her back as he waited expectantly for Hawkeye's witty remark. The rest of the room seemed to echo his movement, and all eyes were on the chief surgeon.  
  
Hawkeye opened his mouth, then paused, his face going blank, "Um..."  
  
The O.C.'s silence grew oppressive. Radar looked up from his Nehi in barely disguised terror.  
  
Captain Pierce's blank stare was shattered by a wide grin. "Gotcha--" The crowd groaned, but laughed nonetheless.  
  
"No, really, to Henry Blake!" Hawkeye started again. "They say a coward dies a thousand deaths--" he chuckled down at Henry, who gave him a smirk and a shake of his head before the Captain's wide, toothy grin mellowed into a caring smile, and his tone became more serious, more genuinely fond. "Here's to a safe nine hundred and ninety nine more."  
  
There was a general applause of approval, then the crowd bellowed back, "Cheers!" and the faces of the crowd were obscured under upturned bottled, tipped glasses, and many other sorts of containers lifted in many other ways.  
  
All faces were obscured but two. That of Henry Blake, who was quite sated, and had earlier on proven to everyone who didn't believe him his complete incapability to keep down anything other than the red stuff, and that of Radar O'Reilley.  
  
Henry looked across Lieutenant Scorch's pretty, soft neck (mentally giving himself a slap on the wrist for indulging such a stare, brief as it may have been) and saw Radar looking off into a corner of the ceiling, looking confused. Henry knew the look only too well.  
  
"Choppers..." he mumbled quietly, getting a little of his own back, after all.  
  
~ 


	46. Chapter 57: In Which Four Visitors Arri...

The party roused back to life, as parties are wont to do, and with the littlest fuss possible Henry and Radar rounded up Hawkeye, Colonel Potter and Father Mulcahy, and the three of them headed out just as a set of chopperblades began to be discernable on the threshold of human hearing.  
  
"Just one, sirs," Radar confirmed, pushing his glasses affectionately up on his nose as he stared up the hill toward the chopper pad.  
  
"One is enough, Radar," Potter reminded him, "What the HELL is it doing here, anyway?"  
  
"Yeah," Henry mused, "I thought reports were that all was quiet around here, they weren't expecting combat for another few days, at least. Maybe it's a sniper case, after all, those guys never seem to--"  
  
"Henry," Hawkeye cut in, "I think Colonel Potter meant that he's not quite sure why there are choppers flying around when they should be grounded."  
  
Henry looked around, "Oh, yeah. They're not supposed to fly at night, are they?" He hadn't seen the sun in so long, well, if you discount their last, very, very poor encounter, that he has becoming used to nighttime being the constant state of the world.  
  
"Radar--"  
  
Radar was shaken out of a boggling inspection of the air in the direction of the chopper's sounds by Colonel Potter's voice.  
  
"Right, come on, Padre, let's you and I go get a couple litters,"  
  
"--Go get somebody to bring--"  
  
"Yes, sir,"  
  
"Right."  
  
The Colonels continued on the path up the hill, lifting their arms as the air grew biting cold from the whipping breeze of the whirling blades.  
  
They lifted their hands to keep flying debris out of their faces as the dark object sunk through the night.  
  
It was marked, as it came closer, by a pair of glowing red lights that turned and glared upon the two men intently as the chopper sank skillfully to earth.  
  
Radar rushed up behind Colonel Blake, and grabbed his woolen cap in his hand in surprise at the sight, Father Mulcahy coming after, slightly slower, and murmuring, "Oh, my God,"  
  
The four were silent until the chopper landed, and, in the space of time it takes a man to blink, the strange lights from the darkness of the inside of the chopper disappeared, leaving the craft seeming to be vacant but for shadows.  
  
"I'm not still seeing things, am I?" Henry mumbled quietly, afraid to move as the chopper blades began to still.  
  
"That must be it," Radar spoke, taking a breath of tangible sound, "The hallucinations are spreading."  
  
Hawkeye finally stirred, "Well, the CHOPPER'S no hallucination, that's for sure, and we can only pray that the wounded are. Father?"  
  
"On it," Father Mulcahy nodded as Hawkeye took a few cautious steps onto the chopper pad, bending down and approaching the driver's side, his eyes wide.  
  
"I'm sorry, sir, we weren't expecting visitors... we didn't subscribe to the weeknight edition of this war." Hawkeye cracked genially as he approached, peering down into the plastic cover of the stretcher up alongside the chopper.  
  
"What've we got here? Aah!" Hawkeye yelled, as one of the patient's hands grabbed the plastic rim once, twice, groping for the latch to undo the plastic cover, and momentarily popping it open.  
  
A ruffled-looking young man sat up, then stood, showing a bit of a dazed look, but generally seeming to be-- unwounded. "Gaw! What a ride. Oh, here, let me help you out, there," the fellow thrust a hand into the driver's side of the chopper, and it was soon taken up by a pale, small, but sturdy-looking hand, which was soon followed out by a pale, small, but sturdy-looking young woman, to whom the hand, oddly enough, belonged.  
  
She smiled and looked down over the camp, then yelled in a coarse tone back into the chopper, "Well, I told you I could find this place. Don't smile at me like that, I know you didn't believe I could.  
  
From the other side of the chopper emerged a matching figure in size, more ruddy and certainly less pale than the other, a man whose hair was a quiet brown, an easily recognizable fellow for those paying attention in the early chapters of this narrative.  
  
"Yes, yes, I'll admit it, I had my doubts, but, you understand, I thought I had cause. After all," Joles T. reached back into the chopper's rather scrunched third-passenger compartment, "Irene and I might have fared a little more poorly than yourself in the event of an unfortunate landing. Oh, look," he smiled, looking over to the small cluster on the helipad as a mirror action of the disembarking on the driver's side took place, a lady's slender hand, much more delicate and lovely than the first, reached out to steady herself as she stood and readied herself to step out.  
  
"We've got a little welcoming committee." He finished just before Irene's pale and smiling face made an appearance, turning without any eagerness or pretence to scan the faces of those assembled and smile warmly at them as she stepped down.  
  
Henry felt a jolt, the remembrance of a sharp pain in the chest. He knew that face. Goddamnit, he knew that face.  
  
~ 


	47. Chapter 58: Business with Henry

Irene, in case you don't recall, was a dark-haired woman of considerable beauty, and was currently dressed in shining Asiatic garb that clashed, somehow, with her features. As she released her grip on Joles' hand, she stepped out of the shadow of the helicopter, her mouth slightly open as she looked down the hill into the camp.  
  
"It's quite as lovely as I thought," she stated softly, in an awed, kind tone expressing either true admiration of the place or profound sadness as to its expected state of disrepair. She shut her mouth into a dreamy smile, then turned her attention toward the M*A*S*H officers.  
  
"Colonel Blake," she greeted, "It's good to see you, again." Joles came around to her side and put a hand on her shoulder, looking pointedly at the others gathered there.  
  
Irene reached back and put a hand on his. "My husband and I," she continued, "Were hoping that you would have wanted to spend some time with us. We were quite disappointed that you felt you had to leave."  
  
"Quite disappointed," Joles repeated, smiling and matching his wife's polite manner as he looked over to the as-yet unnamed young woman who'd flown them there. She wore a simple set of green army clothes, the shirt unbuttoned to show the standard-issue beige t-shirt underneath. Joles wore a similar set of clothes, but his shirt was fastidiously buttoned and tucked in the proper places, and he wore a Colonel's insignia on his collar.  
  
The disheveled-looking fellow stood fidgeting at the side of the helicopter as the pilot tucked her hands behind her back and jauntily headed toward the group. "Should I get the bags, sir?" he asked.  
  
Joles shook his head, "Hopefully it won't be necessary, Sparky. I'll tell you when it becomes so."  
  
"Sparky?" Radar repeated, knowing that he'd heard the voice somewhere, before.  
  
Sparky stopped fingering the handle of the suitcase, leaving it alone at his Regnant's order and putting some distance between himself and the helicopter. "Hey, yeah," he grinned in realization, "It's the Radar. How's it going?"  
  
Radar smiled faintly, "Never better," he said, punctuating his statement with a nervous giggle.  
  
Colonel Potter finally stepped forward, saluting briefly before addressing the visitor. "Colonel? Is this just a social visit, or is there something the M*A*S*H 4077th can help you with?"  
  
"Nothing you need to concern yourself with, Colonel, though thank you for your hospitality. Our business is with Colonel Blake."  
  
Hawkeye hastened to catch up with the pilot, and wheeled around her, naturally taking up a defensive stance against the creepiness that generally surrounded the newly arrived group.  
  
"Well, then, why don't we all head down to the Officer's Club? I'm buying. We'll talk about it over a round of drinks."  
  
Joles smiled, pulled his wife a centimeter or two closer in an affectionate gesture of marital bliss, "No, that won't be necessary. We'd probably better talk to Henry alone, if that's alright."  
  
"Yes," Irene rejoined, "That WOULD probably be best."  
  
Father Mulcahy's face was displaying a magnificent pallor by that point. He gripped Radar's arm tightly and pulled him subtly backward, trying to make his panicked mind stop racing and produce some kind of cogent thought. How many of these things WERE there???  
  
"More than that," the voice whispered harshly to his foggy estimates, "Much more than that."  
  
"No," Hawkeye grinned widely, "Come on, I insist. There's a little nighttime tradition in these parts called the Happy Hour. We'd be delinquent in our duties not to corrupt you with our native customs."  
  
Colonel Traveneau stood quite still, but tilted his head to nod fondly at Hawkeye, "Very well. Sparky, go on ahead. Megan, you can join them, if you have the inclination." He smiled more warmly and turned to speak to Irene, "And you-- you can go with them, too, if you'd like. I, for my part," he looked back straight ahead at Colonel Potter, "Need to speak to Henry. Alone. You can arrange that, can't you, Colonel-- ah, Colonel--"  
  
"Potter, sir," Sparky piped up.  
  
"Colonel Potter, thank you, Sparky."  
  
"You're welcome, sir."  
  
"Indeed. Well?" Joles turned his attention back to Potter.  
  
Potter had seemed about to object, but he paused. It occurred to him, out of nowhere, that it might be best to leave the matter be, and make a swift retreat. He simply nodded, "No problem, Colonel. Padre, Radar, Klinger--" he said, then, with a tone of warning as Hawkeye opened his mouth and lifted his finger in concern, "Pierce! Let's go."  
  
Hawkeye followed a few steps, then turned around, "Henry--" he started, looking back to Joles and his entourage with concern.  
  
Henry looked no less distressed, but he straightened himself and tried to look less than terrified as he nodded briefly.  
  
A split second later, the pilot, Megan, skipped by the group and grabbed up Hawkeye's arm in hers, swinging him around and almost forcibly dragging him along the path. "So, tell me about this happy hour, hm? Is it always so late at night?"  
  
Sparky nervously searched for a final sign of approval from his Regnant's face before, having found it, he ran off down the hill after the group.  
  
"So," Henry laughed a bit, rocking back and forth nervously, as he found himself feeling rather alone up here with the Seneschal and his wife. "Funny weather we're having, huh?"  
  
~ 


	48. Chapter 59: What Henry Meant To Say Was...

Irene waited until the line of others had passed from view down the hillside, taking her hand off of her husband's to tuck a piece of black hair behind her ear. "It gets like that, this time of year," she amiably chattered back, while Joles, on the other hand, took a more direct track, turning back to the helicopter and sitting on the plastic lid of one of the stretchers, simply asking, "How much do you know?"  
  
There was nothing harsh, or cold, or angry about the question, but its soft, nearly tender simplicity left Henry without a place to start.  
  
"About the-- well-- you mean--" he sputtered.  
  
"I'll try again. Do you know you're a vampire?" Joles asked, leaning forward, his face expressing genuine concern.  
  
"Yes, I--" he stopped himself, again, not quite sure where he was headed with that, and restricted himself to repeating, "Yes," and nodding shortly many times to express something between nervousness and utter frustration.  
  
"Good! Good," Joles sighed, "That skips over the initial period of disbelief, my having to prove it to you, my having to prove to you you're neither dreaming nor hallucinating nor the subject of a horrible joke, and you staring blankly at me for an hour while you try to take it all in." He rattled off the processes as if he'd been through it all numerous times before. He squinted and looked Henry over, briefly. "You're still here, so I'm guessing you figured it out at least by that dawn. Where did you sleep?"  
  
"In a-- in.. oh, jeez," Henry shuffled, rather embarrassed.  
  
Irene smiled and came to take his hand, "Don't worry, Henry, between the two of us, there's probably not much we haven't heard."  
  
Henry looked down at her, somewhat agog when he thought of her as a bloodthirsty creature like himself, but comfortable in her presence, nonetheless. "In a coffin." He muttered.  
  
"In a coffin?" Joles stood up again, smiling a bit, but not laughing, nor sounding very derogatory. "Well, it's been a while since I've heard that one. Though I suppose they grow in these parts, hm?" He peered down over the camp. "Well, whatever you assumed about the sun was probably right. It's quite fatal to our kind. Honestly I didn't think you'd still be around, Henry. Generally the Brujah don't embrace for," he smiled, "'smarts,' as they may call it."  
  
Joles stepped back, noticing that he'd obviously lost the Neonate on that last statement.  
  
"Embrace, verb: to kine (that is to say, mortals), to wrap in ones arms, to hug, a sign of affection. To kindred (that is to say, vampires), to transform a mortal into a kindred by means of a process which is not yours to know at this moment, dear fellow, but which, as you may have guessed, was performed upon YOU." He meandered in a slight circle as he spoke, waving a hand in front of him as if disclaiming to a crowd or lecturing to a classroom. When the final syllable left his mouth, he stood in front of Henry Blake and pointed a finger to his chest.  
  
He tapped his finger there as he continued to speak. "Brujah, noun, a species of vampire; adjective, of or pertaining to said kindred species."  
  
He pulled his hand back and pointed to himself, "Malkavian. Namely, Joles Traveneau."  
  
He fondly placed a hand on his wife's shoulder, "Toreador. Namely, Irene Traveneau. I know. She's VERY lovely. But don't get any ideas," he smiled, chuckling, "She's hopelessly devoted to me, and the last time I shared a lady with another man was many, many years ago."  
  
He lifted his hand, coughing slightly to bring himself on track, and tucked his pinky finger down, leaving three fingers and his thumb extended. He pointed to his index finger, "Nosferatu." To his middle finger, "Ventrue." To his ring finger, "Tremere." To his thumb, "Gangrel, for the purposes that lie before us currently."  
  
Irene gave her husband a small look of disapproval, and he smiled at her for a moment before turning back to the matter at hand. "These species are commonly referred to as clans, but, I supposed, as a fellow man of the natural sciences, you'd approve of the more correct terminology."  
  
"Clans," Henry repeated, trying to roll over the list in his mind... Brujah... Malkavian... Toreador... Ventmere? Nosferangrel?  
  
"Yes, I'm sure you'll get used to them in time. Now. You already know that stakes are not fatal, but fairly detrimental at that. Whatever else you might have heard, crosses, running water, mirrors-- all a bunch of 'hooey,' as they say." He bent at the waist a bit in aquiescence as he get a nudge in the side from his lady, "Alright. Generally 'hooey,'" he admitted. "You catching all this? I know I'm going rather quickly, but I'm hoping that this will take as little time as possible."  
  
Henry nodded quickly, "Of course. Stakes, bad. Fire, worse. Could I-- do you mind if I ask a question?"  
  
Joles looked surprised for a moment. "Of course, not. In fact," he smiled, "If you'd continued to stand there like a bump on a log any longer, I'd have begun to wonder whether the embrace took hold, after all."  
  
Henry opened his mouth, and looked to Irene for a moment as if for guidance, as if she knew what he was about to say and would help him find the words. No such help, however, was forthcoming. "I've got a... a thing. Living inside me. It wants to throw people across operating wards. It wants to bite and scratch people-- people I /care/ about-- and, and, gorge itself on their blood. It wants to scare me half out of my wits, and I have to say it's doing a damned fine job of it. What--" he looked searchingly into the Malkavian's eyes, "What am I supposed to do?" he finished, helplessly.  
  
Joly's friendly and chipper smile faded at the speech. He sighed softly. It had been so long since he'd been without that omnipresent force which Henry was describing, he'd almost gotten used to taking it for granted. But he was young once, too, and had humanity. He remembered it fondly, that age of innocence, and he grew somber at the implications of its loss in him. He began to speak.  
  
"We underestimate the Brujah, sometimes. It's often said in backrooms and whispered in hallways that the Brujah have the least debilitating features of all the species. After all, all Cainites, that is to say, Kindred, feel the Beast. If Brujah feel it a bit more strongly than the rest, are more readily under its sway, what is it to them? They don't wake up to the terror the Nosferatu face in the mirror. They don't become trapped in the objects they love most," he pulled Irene to his side emphatically, and she looked down to the ground with modesty tinted with distress, "and, most importantly in the eyes of most Kindred," he chuckled, trying to break the solemn mood, "'at least they're not all Malkavians.'" He smirked, but the smirk faded again into a somber expression. "Yes, they're underestimated; you, Henry Blake, aren't given enough credit for what your species has to put up with. I don't know if I would have made it this far, were I an embraced of your clan. But as I said, we all have the Beast in us, we all deal with it somehow. Most importantly, don't give it the opportunity to grab you. Shun fire and don't tempt the dawn. Do NOT let yourself go hungry until the last moment. Further, there are many of your species who /do/ make it. I suggest you get in touch with them and speak with them about your concerns, they'll understand it more thoroughly than I would."  
  
Henry tried to question him on the point of feeding, which he, above all, desired to avoid, but the recommendation to speak with his own clanmates took him aback, a bit, and he just nodded.  
  
Joles put a hand on his shoulder firmly. "Do you need me to leave you for a while before I continue?" he asked, concerned, and knowing that neonates sometimes need some time out to go angst.  
  
"No... no, I'll be okay, go on," he urged, wondering what the hell ELSE there could be that he didn't know about, yet.  
  
"Alright, then. The Camarilla," he announced, with the voice Henry recognized very well as the one he always tried to use during mandatory VD lectures, "Is a worldwide organization of Kindred, dedicated to smoothing the gears between kindred and kine so that each may live in peace and harmony with the other."  
  
You could have knocked Henry over with a feather. "A WHAT? How many vampires ARE there?"  
  
"Several," Joly replied, deadpan. "You don't think we all of us just decided to up and move to Korea, did you? No, we were banished to this festering shell-crater of a country probably just as unwillingly as you were, if not more so. But the Camarilla is also as hard or harder to say no to than the U.S. army, if you care about continuing to exist in this life."  
  
Henry shook his head in disbelief. "And wherever you go, there you are." He mumbled, a statement that had seemed applicable in his head, prior to its coming out of his mouth. "I mean--"  
  
Joles lifted a hand, "No need, I understand what you mean." He took a deep breath. "And AS a worldwide organization of Kindred dedicated to smoothing the gears between kindred and kine so that each may live in peace and harmony with the other, the Camarilla has come up with a little set of six rules, called Traditions, which I shall relate to you NOW in the hopes that you haven't BROKEN any of them, as you seemed to see fit not to stay with me at the Evac Hospital and learn all this there, where this conversation might have been a little warmer and less exposed to the elements. It is for this reason," he proclaimed, "That I've come here after you, as Seneschal of Seoul, second to the Prince of Seoul: to collect you again, and to make sure that the Traditions have been kept intact in this area. And, just so you know, Meg, whom you met earlier, has come here at my side in her capacity of Scourge of Seoul. That is to say, if I find the damage here irreparable, I have full power to authorize her to carry out your execution. Understood?"  
  
Oh, hell. "Um, yes, sir." Henry spat out. Jesus Christ. Jesus Freaking Christ. It was the Treason trial all over again.  
  
"Alright, well, I'm assuming that you haven't met any other vampires, yet. So the traditions of Hospitality and Domain probably won't have come up. Respectively, those simply mean that other kindred will respect you in your home, and you will respect them in theirs. Any problem there?"  
  
Henry shook his head, "Ah, nope."  
  
"Thought not. The traditions of Progeny and Accounting, likewise, should not be an issue for you, as you have not yet even learned how to create childer, that is to say, how to embrace a person. But, for future times, please learn the lesson of your sire, who, while following the tradition of Progeny and not embracing you without the Prince's permission, seems to have forgotten about the tradition of Accounting, or taking CARE of the childer one brings into unlife, and being responsible for their actions. The Sheriff is currently looking into THAT matter."  
  
"He had permission to--" Henry repeated distressedly, feeling incredibly at the whims of a larger force as he imagined some kind of council of vampires coming together to decide whether they wanted to add him to their ranks.  
  
"Yes," Joles nodded, "It was a very long and drawn out process, which I can go into at another time, if you wish, but I suppose what I'm asking you here is have you created any childer or haven't you?"  
  
"Of course not," Henry replied, kind of taken aback once he understood what he was being accused of. He wouldn't wish this on anybody-- not his worst enemy. The Beast gurgled happily and gnawed at the images of hatred Henry roused to mind, and Henry was distracted for a moment as he tried to shove the thing back wherever it came from.  
  
"Good. Then, there's the tradition of Destruction, which means that no kindred should kill another without express permission from somebody who has the authority to give that permission. For example, of course, and not to keep harping on the case, but it'll do for illustration: The Prince of Seoul has power of Destruction over all the Kindred in his Princedom. In your case, the Prince has given ME power of Destruction over YOU, which I shall then lend to Meg, if I see fit. Not to say that you aren't checking out fine, so far, of course." He smiled as kindly as a man can while discussing the possible death of the man he's smiling upon.  
  
Henry nodded, "Right. And, no, I haven't killed anybody."  
  
"You're catching on." Joles smiled kindly, "And last, but not, of course, least, there's the tradition of the Masquerade." On the last word, the Seneschal's smile waned and was replaced by a rather more serious aspect.  
  
'Deception! Unholy deception! Stop this-- this-- this masquerade!' Father Mulcahy's words rung through Henry's head.  
  
"The Masquerade has been the foundation of the Camarilla from its inception. Only by hiding ourselves carefully from human attention can we ever hope to be left in peace. You can imagine that this is the dearest and most closely guarded tradition of them all. Now, tell us, Henry Braymore Blake," Joly drew close, and pointed a wiry finger down at the camp, "Have you revealed your true nature to those NOT of the Blood?"  
  
Henry stared down where the Malkavian pointed. His mind raced. Bloodlust ran rampant as he considered the Father, Father Mulcahy's spite for him, his strange power over him, but was pounded down forcibly back into submission as Joles T. caught Henry's attention with a stern, "Colonel Blake?"  
  
At which point Henry laughed affably, a large grin replacing his fretful expression. "Believe me, Colonel, everything's COMPLETELY under control at the good ol' 4077th."  
  
A crackling hiss sparked up in the darkness, and a voice came over the loudspeaker. "Attention, all personnel. In honor of the return of our own Lieutenant Colonel Henry Blake, the festivities will adjourn to the mess tent for a witching-hour showing of that 1931 creepy classic, Dracula!"  
  
Joles T. squeezed his eyes shut. Irene flew to his side and put a hand on the back of his neck. The seneschal laughed in a quiet snort. "I see. If this situation were any more 'under control', Colonel Blake, my head might have to follow yours in coming off."  
  
Joly opened his eyes and took one of Irene's hands, squeezing it and looking up at the panic-stricken Brujah. He shook his head and tried to put on a reassuring smile. "Come on. Let's go see what we can't salvage of this situation."  
  
~ 


	49. Chapter 60: License to Kill

Colonel Potter stopped briefly on the hill's edge to intercept the litter- bearers who were heading up to the chopper pad and to explain to them that it was a simple matter of a visiting officer. When they questioned him as to the helicopter pilot's ability to navigate in the dark, he grew uneasy and angrily dismissed them without answering their question in any manner.  
  
He looked up to the top of the hill as the rest went on ahead of him. He doesn't really see what was going on, it being more or less pitch black up there from this angle, but he hadn't heard any sounds of violence or harsh discord, so he went on, shaking his head.  
  
"Padre," he called gently as he came within earshot of the others who were traversing the compound on the way back to the Officer's Club.  
  
Father Mulcahy, who'd been nervously treading the earth at the end of the train of camp staff and strangers, turned around, looking for the Colonel.  
  
"Mind if I have a word?"  
  
"Of course, not, Colonel," the Father spoke meekly, gripping his cap in both his hands and digging his nails into its cloth as he turned around and stood in the center of the compound.  
  
Colonel Potter approached him, looking over his Chaplain's shoulder as he watched the rest of the group disappear into the Officer's Club. Then, and only then, did he step back a bit and look with deadly seriousness into Mulcahy's eyes.  
  
"Padre, I know that word of the-- changes-- that have come on Colonel Blake and Corporal O'Reilley have been spread all over camp, by now. But I believe, if I'm not mistaken, that there's one left that's more or less ducked under our radar screens." He stared intently, pointedly, but it was still a moment before Father Mulcahy knew that the Colonel was not, in fact, talking about another vampire or changeling.  
  
"Oh." Mulcahy finally replied, "Yes," he ducked his head in a near gesture of repentance. "I'm sorry I haven't been entirely forthright about it. I was sure you'd all think I had gone completely bonkers." He sighed. "Colonel Potter, I HEAR voices!"  
  
"Padre, I don't think anyone in their right mind would accuse you of being insane, with everything else that's crept out of the woodwork in the last two days. Do you know what these voices are?"  
  
Mulcahy stared at the ground, "I thought, well, at first I thought it was-- Him."  
  
Potter nodded quietly. Inwardly awed, always having been a Christian in name and in practice, always sure of the goodness of the Bible's teachings, but never quite positive about the whole "God" thing.  
  
"Now I think it might be something more like an Angel. I've been doing some research-- it's not unusual-- well, that is to say, Biblically, it wasn't unusual-- for angels to come and make God's will known to men."  
  
"And what kinds of things do these voices say God's will entails, exactly, Father?"  
  
"Mainly," Mulcahy sighed heavily, "Colonel, that ideally Henry and Radar should be-- um-- put down."  
  
Colonel Potter shook his head and whistled. "No wonder you've been quiet, recently, Padre. That's quite a cross to be bearing. What's your own opinion about this will, if I might ask? Strictly between you and me, of course."  
  
"Thank you, Colonel." Mulcahy replied as he tried to tie his thoughts together on the subject. He took a deep breath. "The conclusion that I've come to-- I think-- is that this message is only an ideal suggestion; that God disapproves of such creatures. Then, God also disapproves of sinners; but sinners may be redeemed. I think that there may be a chance that Henry and Radar might yet be redeemed. And I think that God has given me the power to do so."  
  
"Power, Padre?"  
  
"Yes. Certain... skills, I suppose, that allow me to subdue them and show them the light of humanity again. They ARE still human, on some level, Colonel, and I think that God is trying to tell me to seek out the human in them and try to lead it out. On the other hand--" He stopped himself.  
  
"Yes?" Colonel Potter urged.  
  
"On the other hand, I do firmly feel that if redemption proves impossible through the powers of the dark forces that have taken over our comrades... that they should be destroyed."  
  
Colonel Potter then got around to the crux of the matter. "And these visitors. Are they--?"  
  
"Yes." Mulcahy answered immediately. "Yes, they are. Well, Sparky isn't one, but is definitely under their power somehow. The rest, yes, yes," he repeated, his eyes wide with something near panic.  
  
"Thought so." Colonel Potter mumbled darkly. "Father, when Henry returned, I thought I could handle it. When Radar... changed... I started to get scared. This is too much. There are vampires taking over my camp! Holy Moses, one virtually OUTRANKS me!"  
  
Mulcahy fell silent, thinking that he knew where this was headed. "What are you saying, Colonel?"  
  
"I guess I'm saying, Father, is that I'm going to need your help. I know you feel strongly about bringing these people back around, but if you find that you can't, I don't want you to hesitate to do whatever you have to to get them the hell out of my camp! Alive or otherwise."  
  
Mulcahy exhaled deeply as he felt a surge of adrenaline well within him. "Yes, sir," he replied.  
  
~ 


	50. Chapter 61: The Kine Are Confused That ...

"Wow, what a crowd," Meg gaped as she entered the Officer's Club on Hawkeye's arm. "Nice digs, too, you wouldn't'a thought from the outside."  
  
Radar, having gone ahead of the two, mingled with the crowd, and within seconds the room was buzzing: "More vampires... glowing eyes... choppers at night..." and some were straining in the crowd to catch a glimpse of the new arrival.  
  
"Yeah, well, we try to keep it a secret," Hawkeye replied, "Who wants to wait in line to get into a place in this weather?"  
  
Sparky, who'd gone to get a drink, was tapping his fingers in wait as he lustily eyed some of the nurses when someone leaned over to him and whispered, "Hey, did you hear? That chick who just walked in with Cap'n Pierce is another one of those vampire things."  
  
Sparky stared. "Another--" he sputtered, then, sighed, trembling a bit, "Oh, boy." He felt much pain looming on the horizon.  
  
Meg, for her part, giggled dorkily over Hawkeye's joke. He shook his head, but couldn't help smiling as he decided to test her a bit, "So. That drink. What'll you have?"  
  
Meg stifled her chuckles and peered at Hawkeye thoughtfully for a second, grinning in a manner that made Hawkeye, under the circumstances, feel a little uncomfortable.  
  
"Well, I'll have whatever you're having, then."  
  
Hawkeye looked a little surprised that she'd accepted his offer, but went over to the bar, determined to call her bluff and root out her vampirehood. "Hey, Charlie, two martinis," he called out, headed over to the bar. Meg kept right up behind him, smiling at the people who stared at her as they parted to let them pass.  
  
Sparky left his drink at the bar a little ways down, and went to urgently tug at Meg's sleeve, who turned in surprise, then resumed her normal pleasant, omnipresent smile, "Oh, Sparky, I'll dance with you in a little, okay? I'm being a good guest to Mr. Pierce, here."  
  
"Just Hawkeye is fine," he reminded her.  
  
"But Meg--" Sparky nearly whimpered.  
  
Her face suddenly grew stern for an instant, and the lad cringed away as if physically stricken. "Yes, ma'am," he groveled.  
  
Meg went back to the conversation, "Excuse him-- I think he's positively smitten with me!" she giggled. "So, what's with the big party, anyhow? Is it McArthur's birthday or something?"  
  
Hawkeye shook his head, "Nope. We're just pouring libations-- down our throats, of course-- for the safe return of our fearless leader. We'd heard he'd died in a plane crash. It turns out we were wrong. Or, rather, un-right."  
  
Meg scrunched up her nose, "Un-right?" she asked.  
  
"Yep. We'd only be wrong if he was alive. He's only undead, so we're only unright." He looked at Meg intently, looking for a hint of acknowledgement.  
  
She watched him in return a second, her face blank as she took in his words. Then she smiled, excused herself, and leaned over around Hawkeye, calling to the bartender, "Better make mine a small one, I think I might have to work tonight."  
  
She then hopped lithely up onto a barstool.  
  
Hawkeye leaned on the bar and said in an accusatory tone, "You're still going to sit there and pretend you can drink a martini with the best of us?"  
  
"Well, I might not be a two-fisted drinker, but I can hold a little bit of the stuff," she rejoined, "You don't have to rub it in."  
  
Hawkeye squirmed in frustration, "You know what I mean."  
  
Meg looked innocent, "No... what?"  
  
"You're a vampire! Vampires can't drink martinis! He tried!"  
  
Meg laughed. "I'm no vampire! There aren't even any such things as vampires. Your Colonel Blake's obviously deranged. And I could say the same of you for believing him."  
  
Hawkeye leaned closer as the martinis were set in front of them. "How did you know I was talking about Colonel Blake?" He looked down at the drink in front of the Scourge, and smirked, "Moment of truth, baby doll. Drink up."  
  
Meg lifted the martini glass awkwardly, obviously unused to handling it. "Moment of truth? I guess so, I've never had a martini before. So, what else do you supposedly know about these alleged vampires?" She lifted the glass, finally, and swallowed its contents. Her eyes grew wide, and she gasped, "Oh! That burns!" She blinked her eyes a few times as if they were watering, then regarded Hawkeye. "Sorry, you were saying?" she grinned, a grin that practically yelled out, 'Gotcha!'  
  
Hawkeye didn't bat an eyelash, "You'll get used to it. You should try our homemade stuff. Hey, another martini here."  
  
~ 


	51. Chapter 62: The Kine Are Amused That The...

A short while and many drinks later:  
  
Meg hung over Sparky's shoulders as she giggled and snorked and reached out her hand for another martini. "I /love/ this song. P-play it again! Sparky! Gimm'ya kiss." She puckered vaguely over the ghoul's shoulder, who looked desperately over at Captain Pierce, who had his legs propped up on a round table, crossed at the ankles.  
  
"Yes, ma'am," Sparky replied, but didn't, banking correctly that the Scourge wouldn't know the difference. He wavered and tried to hold up the flailing Gangrel.  
  
"So, Meg," Hawkeye called out, sipping his drink far more slowly than Meg, unexperienced in the ways of alcohol, chugged hers down, "The Nosferatu are the wizards?"  
  
She shook her head heavily, "Nope, nope, the Tremere, the wizards. The Nos, the, uh, ugly sumsavagon."  
  
"Ma'am? Ma'am?" Sparky hissed, "You think maybe we should get out of here? Please?"  
  
"Oh NOooo, Shparky. Cap'n Hawkeye, he's good, I'll vouch for him. And him, and him--" she started pointing out random individuals on the dance floor. "Yeah." She affirmed. "We're good."  
  
"My Regnant's gonna kill me," Sparky whimpered, but continued obediently holding the scourge off of the floor.  
  
"Oh, yeah, right, that's right," Hawkeye went on, egging her on, "And the Ven-- the, err--"  
  
"Ventrue. They like to, err, paper, write on paper, and be in charge, yup."  
  
Hawkeye laughs, "Well, at least THEY were smart enough to recognize that Henry Blake didn't fit in with THEM. Sure, he's got the writing on paper down--"  
  
Radar, who was perched nearby, nodded, "Last I reckoned, he was up to 32 signatures a minute."  
  
"But being in charge is definitely NOT his forte."  
  
"No, no, wouldn't think so. Brujah just... go and get angry, and beat things a lot."  
  
Hawkeye and Radar looked at one another. "Well, that describes Colonel Blake to a tee," Radar mumbled, obviously not meaning it.  
  
"And THEN!" Meg jabbed a finger demonstratively into the air. "There's us Gangrel. The /good/ Gangrel... the /noble/ Gangrel... the... waitasec. Oh, no, uh, Gangrel are bad. But not all'vum. I'M a Gangrel." She swung her finger around to point at herself. "Couldn't tell, could'ja?" she winked. "It's an old Nos trick."  
  
Hawkeye squinted at her, "Uh, no, it doesn't show, at all. What-- what's an 'old Nos trick?'" he asked, despite vehement shakes of the head from Sparky.  
  
"Oh, please, no," the ghoul mumbled.  
  
"Oh! You wanna see!" squealed the Gangrel, "Here!"  
  
Most of the people left in the bar, though many had already dispersed to head toward the location of the movie, were too involved in their dance partners, their drinks, or their respective tabletop spaces to notice the slight blurring of the Scourge's form, her suddenly sprouted clusters of pale yellow fuzz, her long, drooping ears, her eyes large and brown, her nostrils tall and lined with fur in the center of her face, the sudden blackness and density of her fingernails. It was probably a good thing. Hawkeye and Radar were freaked out enough for the lot of them.  
  
"Yuup... you don't get to be scourge by sittin' there and lookin' pretty..." the creature giggled, and put her mask back up, assuming the aspect once more of a short, homely girl with a drunk-off-her-hindside grin on her face.  
  
"Evidently not," Hawkeye commented, his eyebrows pushing up into his fetching bangs. Radar sat with his mouth falling open a while, as Hawkeye quickly changed the subject.  
  
"So, and those other two, they're both--"  
  
Meg shook her head, "Nope. They're what'cha call a Mixed Marriage. She's a, a Tor-- Tor--"  
  
"A Toreador, yeah, the bullfighters."  
  
"Ole!" cried the Gangrel, snorting with laughter.  
  
"And he's a-- he's a Malkavian." She made a sour face.  
  
Hawkeye put his feet back on the ground and leaned forward, interested in investigating this gesture.  
  
"A Malkavian? You never mentioned those before."  
  
"Oh, well, yah," she dipped Sparky a bit, who blushed horridly, and whispered shakily, "We don't like to TALK about them, much. They're NUTS."  
  
"Nuts? As in Bananas, Crackers and--"  
  
"Nuts!" Meg cried, "Bonkers, suh, I swear, every man jack of them! You take a person, normal as the night is long, and you put 'em in with a Malk for a while and they're all crazier than-- something really, really crazy-- " she trailed off, putting a hand on her forehead, "Uugghhhhh. I think I have to go get rid of this stuff, now, 'scuse me. Where'd-- where'd everybody go?" She stared around at the nearly empty room.  
  
Hawkeye stood up, "We're all going to the movie. It'll be over in the mess tent. See you there?" He headed off toward the door, Radar hopping up and following behind, though watching the Gangrel a bit distractedly.  
  
"Yah, sure, just, uh, oh, I'll find'ja." She slurred, "Sparky, can you help me find the bathroom?"  
  
"Yes, ma'am," Sparky painedly answered, leading her out of the Officer's Club.  
  
All was quiet in the Officer's Club when the announcement came over the P.A. system. All those who were left were the few that had completely passed out for the night.  
  
Or so the last to leave had thought. Now one head lifted off of its table, deceptively aware, and smiling like a man looking over a winning lottery ticket he found on the sidewalk.  
  
"Malks, huh?" Klinger grinned, "I can smell Toledo already!"  
  
~ 


	52. Chapter 63: A Botched Assassination

People were drifting into the mess tent in droves. The last to arrive outside the doors were the Seneschal and his beloved Irene from the chopperpad with the terrified Henry in tow, and, from the direction of the space behind the latrine, the ghoul Sparky and the Scourge, slightly less inebriated for having gotten the bulk of the liquor she was holding in her stomach back out onto the ground. Slightly.  
  
"Ok, guys," she whispered conspiratorially as she stumbled toward the other group, "The gig is up. *hic*" she put a hand over her mouth.  
  
Sparky tried his best to look Not To Blame in this matter.  
  
Joles frowned, though Irene laughed at the sight. "You're thoroughly drunk," he told the Gangrel firmly, then shivered, "Do you know what could be in this swill they pour out around here? Do you realize how unsafe it is?" he scolded her, his eyes growing wide as he hunched up his shoulders inside his shirt, his armsleeves coming down over his hands slightly. "Yes, I know the extent of the Masq breach in this area, I don't need an inebriated fleabag like you telling me that." He lifted one hand to scratch at the other arm as he looked around, "Go find yourself a patch of ground to sleep in, or whatever the hell it is you do to sober up. We're probably going to have to stay the day, here."  
  
His eyes were wide and wild as he stared the place over, but they softened as their gaze fell on his attentive bride, who shook her head.  
  
Joles sighed, and looked back to the Gangrel, who looked close to tears at the scolding. "I'm sorry, Megan, it's been a rough night, you understand."  
  
She nodded wobbly. "I know, sir. I'm sorry, too... um..." she looked over behind the pair at Henry. "Um, you want me ta--"  
  
Joles lifted an eyebrow and smiled at the Scourge's spunk, at least. "Well, do you think you can?"  
  
Henry tried to do an impersonation of somebody who wasn't there.  
  
Meg squinted, and lifted a hand into the air, a pair of wicked-looking black claws, shining like obsidian, sprouted from her fingertips. "Yeh. Jus'... jus' tell 'im to keep still a second," she squinted, and poked her tongue out of her mouth in intent concentration.  
  
In an eyeblink, the Scourge disappeared from Sparky's side, and the ghoul nearly toppled, not having her weight to support anymore. She appeared beside Henry with a fierce grimace on her face, which turned into one of confusion, and then surprise, as she swiped a clawed hand through the air, completely missing her target, and was carried around by the follow-through to spin a good three times around and then flop onto the dirt floor, groaning. "Ugh. Lemme at 'em-- err..." she squirmed and tried to get back to her feet, but was way too dizzy and discombobulated.  
  
Henry felt faint. He looked despairingly to Joles, who laughed loudly at the sight, his small frame shaking with the force. "Oh, dear," he chuckled, as Irene tugged on his armsleeve.  
  
"Megan, forget it. We'll stay the night, and tomorrow, and then see what needs to be done. For now--" He caught a pleading glance from his wife, and chuckled again.  
  
Henry wasn't quite sure how to feel about his prospective death getting the same reaction out of the Seneschal as one of his wife's whims.  
  
"Oh, fine, Irene, we may as well go watch the movie."  
  
Joles opened the door, his hand guiding his wife with a gentle touch on the hip. "Henry? Joining us?"  
  
"Um. Yes, sir," he answered, and went on in.  
  
"Meg?" he called, as Henry went in ahead of them.  
  
"In a second," she called, dusting herself off shakily, "Gimme a second," she repeated, "I'll be right in."  
  
The other two vampires similarly disappeared.  
  
"Meg? Ma'am? Need a hand?" Sparky offered.  
  
"Naw, hon. Go tend to your Master. I'll be JUST fine."  
  
Sparky nodded and hastened inside.  
  
Meg sighed, and, finishing composing herself, made a few attempts to progress in a straight line toward the door until she finally made it.  
  
~ 


	53. Chapter 64: A Successful Association

"Mind if I sit here?" Radar mumbled, among the general hubbub of the crowd.  
  
Meg had perched herself in the back row of the auditorium, near the door, where she was trying to sit still as she watched all the kine throng in, exacerbating her still dazed condition.  
  
"I'd sit closer to the screen," Radar continued, "But I can't sit too close, the picture is too big, and I get dizzy looking at it." He shuffled nervously.  
  
She smiled some, "Yeah, I know how you feel." She scooched over.  
  
"I brought you some coffee, if you wanted some. It's only lukewarm, but--"  
  
"Ehh... no thanks." She grabbed her stomach a bit, "I've had enough of that mortal stuff toni--" she paused mid-sentence as Radar thrust a coffee mug toward her, which she could instantly pick out as NOT being full of coffee. She took the cup.  
  
"Thanks," she finally said, smiling and sipping. "I'm Meg... um, did I tell you that before?"  
  
Radar nodded, "A few times, actually, but I don't mind. I'm Walter. My good friends call me Radar, though."  
  
"Wh--" "Because I sometimes know what's going to happen before it does. It was also my Uncle Ed's nickname, I kind of grew into it."  
  
Meg grinned and shook her head, "Okay, Radar, tell me when the--"  
  
"Now."  
  
"--lights are going to get turned out," Meg trailed off as the lights seemed to switch off at Radar's command.  
  
Radar lowered his voice as the movie began to run.  
  
"Okay, now is it my turn to ask a question?"  
  
"Only if you don't mind my not answering it until you're done talking."  
  
"Well, I guess it'll have to do-- but, seriously, promise you won't laugh, even if the question sounds really silly?"  
  
Meg shook her head, "Nope. Unless it's "What's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?""  
  
Radar giggled, "Well, that was going to be it, but if you prefer, I'll try something else."  
  
"Please." Meg stated playfully.  
  
"Okay... here goes..." Radar took a deep breath, leaned in close to the Scourge, and... bleated.  
  
"How do you do that 'Nos trick' thing you did in the O.C.?" was what he said. Meg blinked, and understood.  
  
"How did you--?" she sputtered, then, testing, bleated, "How did you learn to speak Lambish?"  
  
Radar blushed, "Well, I am one, you see, I only look like this to other people," he bleated out softly, spreading his arms in a helpless indication of his physical person. "I was wondering if you could teach me to let people see what I really look like."  
  
"You're a what? I mean, I guess I believe you... or maybe I'm just drunker than I thought." She squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them again.  
  
"I'm a lamb. My glasses are also a bear, and my teddy bear is a dragon." Radar elaborated.  
  
"Now you're yanking my chain."  
  
"I just wanna know how you let people see your... lamb parts."  
  
"I didn't. I mean, I don't. It's not--- baah--- the Nos trick is to NOT let your real self be seen. Or else all the Nos get in a big load of trouble. But it doesn't do us Gangrel much bad, either."  
  
"Oh. That's too bad. Why'd you want to hide it?"  
  
"Because it's ugly--"  
  
"I didn't think so--" Radar cut in, almost too hastily, quite awkwardly, and, believe me, it sounded even more awkward in Lambish. Like a sickly little squeal of a bleat.  
  
"And besides," the Scourge continued, "If all the kine-- err- humans-- saw it, they'd all wanna kill me."  
  
"I guess that's a good point. I think Father Mulcahy wants to kill me. And he's the only one who can see me, really, in the whole world."  
  
Meg was quiet a while, "You really think I'm pretty, Radar?"  
  
Radar blushed like a demon, and nodded.  
  
Meg giggled a bit, human-wise, and then bleated, "Thanks. A girl needs to hear that, from time to time." She stared at the movie screen a while, thinking to herself, and Radar did the same, until she finally spoke again.  
  
"Your accent's familiar. Where are you from?"  
  
"Near Ottumwa, Iowa." Radar readily replied.  
  
"Oh, geez, you swear you didn't just yank that out of my brain? That's near where I'm from. I'm from Chinnaughay, Iowa."  
  
"Chinnaughay? I went to all four years of high school, there! I had to drive in by car, Ottumwa didn't have one."  
  
"Yeah, I remember the Ottumwa students coming in, when I was there." Meg sighed, "I can't believe how much I remember, good ol' Jimmy P High..."  
  
"Jimmy P?"  
  
"That's what we called it. You know, James Peters High School...?"  
  
Radar shook his head, "No... the school I went to in Chinnaughay we called M.M. High... Megan Madditon High School."  
  
Meg did a double take, "What?" she bleated loudly, then, more quietly, "What?"  
  
Radar nodded, "Yeah, Ma told me they named it after some girl who went missing bout--" Radar paused, blinking. "Bout 30 or 40 years ago." He trailed off.  
  
The sounds of the movie overcame their conversation for a moment, before Meg finally corrected him, "More like 50."  
  
"Hey!" someone finally shouted from the center of the 'theater.' Someone tell the shepherd to take the flock outside, I'm trying to watch the movie, huh?"  
  
Meg shifted in her seat and finally climbed awkwardly over Radar, "Scuse me, I'm going to get a bit of fresh air." She mumbled distractedly.  
  
"Need some company?" Radar whispered back.  
  
"No. I-- We'll talk later, okay, Radar?" She even smiled at him through her distraction. She, though she hesitated, even swooped down and placed a little kiddish kiss on his forehead, right under the brim of his cap. Nothing more than a sister would give a brother.  
  
But it took the words right out of the Pooka's mouth. And you all know how hard it is to do THAT.  
  
~ 


	54. Chapter 65: The Bastard Is Vindicated

Megan found herself outside before she quite remembered the little gesture of affection she'd given Radar in the mess tent, and she lowered her head, holding a hand up in front of her mouth to hide a somewhat queasy smile from the dark and silent world around her.  
  
That people from back home still seemed to think of her with kindness shocked her soul into quietude. That Radar thought she was pretty despite her ghastly transformations delighted her and brought her back out into the world. She felt quite beloved of everyone, right then, the fact of the seneschal's obvious displeasure in her drunken state half-buried under a pile of pleasant thoughts of her family, all, of course, as they appeared 50 years ago, smiling as they looked at a picture of their missing daughter, of their missing sister.  
  
Meg couldn't stop herself from spinning once around, looking up to the night sky and daring the sun to come up. Nothing could hurt her, now.  
  
She giggled, still mildly drunken, but feeling it a lot less than the pure giddiness of the night as she called out the heavenly body of flaming death, "Come out, come out, wherever you are..."  
  
"Yes?" a voice called out to her from the darkness behind the swamp, as she came to stand in the center of the compound.  
  
She stopped. "Oh, sorry, I-- I didn't think there was going to be anyone out here. I wasn't talking to you." She added hastily.  
  
"Yes, I know," Father Mulcahy responded lightly, stepping out into the compound, "I would, however, like to speak with you."  
  
Meg smiled. Why, everybody wanted to talk to her, tonight. Her self- image got boosted up another several notches as she nodded to the Chaplain and spun half-around, keeping her face on him over her shoulder and jerking her head a bit to indicate that he should follow. "Say," she started, "I recognize you, I met you on the chopperpad-- well, sort of. I'm Meg... what's your name, hon?" she asked congenially as the Father stepped to her side and began to anxiously walk along with her as she took a stroll down along the tentfronts.  
  
"Father John Francis Patrick Mulcahy," he intoned lightly, peering at the strange beast of a girl.  
  
"Didn't you want to see the movie, Father?" Meg brightly asked, her aspect glowing with so much happiness that the chaplain could almost smell the Changeling on her. He was somewhat surprised.  
  
"Oh, no," he responded, "I think I've seen enough in reality recently to miss out on the next dozen or so vampire films that come to camp."  
  
Meg snorted as she giggled, thoroughly amused by his statement, "Don't worry, we'll clear things up around here, then life can go on as normal. Just don't believe everything you see in the flicks... Dracula's like a Tor, called a Nos, who took lessons from a Gangrel." She chuckled.  
  
Father Mulcahy bit at his lower lip solemnly, looking at Meg with his large, questioning eyes. "How can you take these matters so lightly, Meg? Don't you know what you are?"  
  
The scourge froze a bit, blinking at the question, and looking slightly uncomfortable. She tried to smile, though, and shrug it off, "Hey, Father, it's not as bad as all that. Don't knock it until you've tried it, right?"  
  
Father Mulcahy shook his head, "There won't be any need for that. I know right from wrong. So do you, deep down. How can you say that killing people to feed off of their blood is 'not as bad as all that?'"  
  
Meg pouted and dug a toe of her shoe into the compound's earth. "Hey, well, you don't have to kill someone to feed, you can just knock them out and toss 'em in a ditch to recover or someth--" she cut off, twitching slightly as she realized how horrible that sounded.  
  
"You throw people in ditches. You /feed/ from their blood. How do you stand to face yourself in the mirror?"  
  
Meg's humanity struggled to rise to the Hunter's call, but she shoved it down, shaking her head, "You're making it sound worse than it is!" she accused him, growing defensive, meaning several things by that statement at once.  
  
"What could possibly sound worse than this... this monstrosity... is? What could be worse?" he goaded, trying to break through to her as he'd easily found Henry and Radar. Then, neither of the other two had been monsters for long. Maybe this one just needed a little bit more work.  
  
But she stood strong up against his attack, clutching her beliefs in a close, clawed grip, turning to face him with a triumphant grin.  
  
"Death, for one. Death trumps all. As long as it means a man won't die, many, many things are excusable. You should know that, working in this place. If you were---"  
  
She paused her speech and stared at him before continuing, "If you were human, you'd know what I mean."  
  
Mulcahy watched her closely. She didn't even tremble in her assertation. Completely unrepentant, he thought, before even the voices could remind him of the fact. Completely unrepentant. The Gangrel's face melted before his eyes into a that of a rotting sheep with golden fur, an idol dressed up for a pagan altar, an idol labeled 'life.'  
  
"Father?" she asked, as he didn't say anything. She furrowed her brow and sighed, "Look, come right down to it, I'm afraid, okay? Nobody WANTS to die. This way, well... I don't have to." She reached to touch hium gently on the arm, "You understand, right?"  
  
She looked down at her arm, which was no longer obeying her command to move. She stood rooted to the spot, and the beast jumped out from deep inside her in terror. She tried to sprout the deadly claws from her fingertips, to scratch off the face of the holy man, she tried to meld into the earth, to get away, to take wing and fly, to melt into fog, to do anything. She couldn't even raise her head from the bent position of forced supplication.  
  
"We all have to die, sometime, Megan. We all have to answer to God for our lives."  
  
She never saw Father Mulcahy pull a sword of angelic flame out of the ether and bring it down on her exposed neck.  
  
~ 


	55. Chapter 66: Cinematic Interlude And A B...

The film reel rattled and over the hiss of the machine Bela Lugosi's now- trademark awkwardly paused, foreign accent spoke: "Listen to them... children of the night. What music they make!"  
  
Radar tilted his head, shifted slightly on the back seat, and looked down to the empty coffee cup next to him, slightly rimmed with red. He tried to listen, his forehead furrowing.  
  
Onscreen, Dracula continued, his words oddly striking Radar as if they were trying to tell him something: "A spider spinning his web for the unwary fly." Radar shivered, feeling strange, feeling trapped, feeling unable to move, and then, nothing. He tilted his head to try to look at Bantelhopp's face, to try to get some clue as to what had happened. The chimera shook his head.  
  
"The blood...is the life, Mr. Renfield." Dracula finished explaining.  
  
"Why, yes," Renfield admitted, much less acutely aware of the danger of his situation than Radar was of that which lurked outside the Mess Tent doors. Radar slid out of his seat, taking the bloody cup with him as he stepped nervously toward the door, wishing that Ban would tell him more about what was going on, and frightened at the chimera's silence. He felt like he had before the change, before he awoke, when all he could puzzle out of Bantelhopp's messages were vague intuitions that left him more often than not simply queasy with a feeling that something was about to go on.  
  
Radar was about to head out the door when a motion along the side of the tent caught his attention. It was Sparky, pacing rather excitedly. He finally bent his figure double and went up along the side aisle to where the Seneschal was sitting.  
  
Joles, for his part, was occupying part of his time trying to decide whether the movie was the work of one troublesome anarch who found a way to get a script to Hollywood past the Camarilla, or the work of millennia of tiny little breaches of the Masq all compiled into one. He'd never seen it before, in fact, and was surprised at the amount it seemed to have about right, despite all the obvious errors.  
  
The other part of his time he spent fondly watching his wife abandon herself to the pleasant cinematography in that way only the Toreador can. He chuckled and found himself giving her a gentle squeeze around the waist and pulling himself close to her, thinking how much they must resemble Joe and Jane Teenage American on a date at the drive-in. Irene, of course, neither noticed nor responded, simply staring wide-eyed at the screen.  
  
The Seneschal removed himself from his wife's waist, deciding to leave her to her enjoyment, and not being able to help cringing from the buildup of ice-cold air around her person.  
  
'If I've told her once, I've told her a thousand times,' Joles complained inwardly, 'If she'd just take the effort to keep up a regular pulse, she wouldn't be so blessed cold all the time.'  
  
He briefly rubbed his hands together, trying to warm them, then, his eyes widening in terror, he gripped his wrist with his opposite hand and felt for his pulse. Yes, yes, there it was, but-- he counted, and counted, and tried to keep two sets of numbers straight in his head; this set for numbers of seconds, that for pulses. He'd gotten fairly good at such a method, but now, in his fright, he couldn't quite keep them straight, increasing his level of panic.  
  
"Good God... seven times eight, the square root of seventy-two, God, THINK, Joly, THINK." He whispered to himself. His wife, of course, was completely enthralled by the film, and didn't hear a word he was saying.  
  
He groped for his pulse again, "Too slow," he fretted, "Too cold." He felt his forehead, and stuck a finger under his tongue, probing at the undead flesh there.  
  
He finally reached into his oblivious wife's pocket and pulled out a makeup compact, opening it quickly and using it to inspect the color of the insides of his eyelids, pulling them up and then down with a fingertip, then finally just peering into the mirror intently.  
  
He re-focused his eyes carefully, letting the picture of himself in the mirror blur out and be replaced by a rushing wash of whirling color.  
  
"Sit still," he growled at his hyperactive, fretting aura. He broke out in a blood-red sweat and started fidgeting as those damned voices started!  
  
"And so he says to it, "Hey, you, are you an adverb or what?"" one voice said.  
  
"Yeah," another replied, "And I can't help it if the milk went slightly bad. It's the condition of things."  
  
"Hey, look who it is!"  
  
"Out. Out of my head," he hissed through clenched teeth.  
  
"Look who it--" The Seneschal snapped the compact closed, and the voices snapped shut just as audibly into a silence vaguely marred by the clatter of the movie reels and the droning of the character's voices.  
  
"Sir? Sir?" Sparky came to crouch by his Regnant's side, recognizing easily all the signs of one of the Malkavian's fits of madness coming on.  
  
"Sir, you don't look well, should I--"  
  
"Yes, Sparky, go get my bag. Go. Now." This last part was spoken loud enough to be heard and ignored by the bulk of the crowd. Colonel Potter, for his part, turned at the hubbub and was about to say something about it, but he frowned as he saw Sparky crouching in a most servile manner and bowing as he retreated at his Regnant's command.  
  
"Yes, sir, yes, sir, I'll get it, sir," Sparky assured him humbly as Potter lifted his chin to look on.  
  
Sparky ran back toward the back of the tent. Joles gritted his fangs and the blood sweat soaked back into his pores as he forced blood through his system, using it to warm his dead body and regulate his pulse, feeling his wrist obsessively.  
  
Potter quirked a brow as he turned back to the screen in time to see the now hunched and wild-eyed Renfield creep down to open the Count's coffin in the hold of the Vesta.  
  
"Master, the sun is gone." Renfield, obviously changed by whatever unspecified act Count Dracula had inflicted upon him at the end of the first scene, informed the audience.  
  
Potter looked back toward the hastily retreating Sparky, his curiosity suddenly piqued by Renfield's slavish actions.  
  
"You will keep your promise when we get to London, won't you, master? You will see that I get lives...not human lives but small ones...with blood in them. I'll be loyal to you, master. I'll be loyal." Renfield went on.  
  
~ 


	56. Chapter 67: Going To Sleep With The Wor...

Radar only noted the odd pacing of his longtime partner in crime; urged on by his moment of foreboding, he quietly opened the door and stepped out into the dazzling dark emerald glow of the compound.  
  
He gaped and stood awed at the side of the compound. He couldn't see any trace of what had happened there, but he could feel that something had happened. Something-- wonderful. For good or bad, he couldn't tell, but it was glorious, whatever it was. He snatched his hat off in respect of it.  
  
It was like a hint of frankincense left around the edges of the night, a sip of water that tastes exactly like water except for the fact that you know it's holy.  
  
"What's all this?" he questioned his taciturn companion as he sniffed out traces of the excitement in the atmosphere.  
  
"Something happened here," he affirmed, as he wasn't getting anything out of Bantelhopp.  
  
As if in reply, the wind wailed and ruffled whoever's underwear the flagpole was sporting that night. "What music they make," Radar repeated from the film, and looked down as he felt something tickle at his ankle.  
  
A thin veil of light silty dust seemed to move plaintively in the wind, then settle to the earth again, barely distinguishable from the regular camp dirt.  
  
From the emerald gloom there stepped a dusky figure of a man of God whose equal-armed Chaplain's cross shone briefly and racked the Pooka with a shiver. Even before Radar could see Father Mulcahy's face, he felt that discerning, disapproving stare, he heard a hesitation in the man's step, and he knew that a decision was being made.  
  
The Father was startled to come across Radar in the compound, himself. For an instant, the beastly, ram-like features of the Pooka and the uniformity of army attire made him believe that there once more stood before him the beast he'd slain moments before. Thus his hesitation, before the familiar green limb of the dragon creature come warily into view, and the creature spoke, its face flickering back into the familiar visage of the company clerk.  
  
"Hey, Father," Radar spoke, a timid smile sprouting to try to paint a picture of confidence and certainty over the situation as he jammed his hands 'casually' into his pockets. "You're missing a real good flick in there. I'd still be watching it but it was all crowded and the machine was heating up the tent so I figured--" he looked down as all his prattling was getting him was a shame-inducing silent stare from the priest, and he dug a toe awkwardly into the oddly dusty earth, "So I figured I'd just-- come out and get some cold air, while, you know, it's still warm enough to feel it." He blushed, made acutely aware of his childish manner of speech by the Hunter's presence.  
  
"I see." Father Mulcahy replied lightly. "Radar, I would highly suggest that in the future you keep yourself at a distance from our... guests. They'll only be a bad influence on you."  
  
"Why, Father? I mean, I haven't really talked to any of them, yet, but... they seem nice enough."  
  
"They seem so, don't they? Don't let them make a fool of you, Radar. They have... masks... masks that they wear, masks of kindness and goodness and decency to put all around them at total ease. But when those masks are removed, there's nothing good, nothing human underneath. They foster peace as a cover to hide the fact that they are creatures of violence and death. But that's all they are, and all they ever will be."  
  
'And you, too, Radar,' Mulcahy continued silently, inwardly apostrophizing to an audience of himself, his God, and whatever beings might be acting as messengers between the two. 'Poor wretched child. You're still alive, there, and you can still control what wants to reign within you, but how long will it last? How long can I help you hold it back? The war won't last forever, then it'll be back to Iowa with you, where I might never see you again, where you'll life and learn to listen to the monster that whispers in your ear. And who will be there to protect you? Who?'  
  
"Good night, Radar," Mulcahy concluded, "Enjoy the movie."  
  
He turned and left in the direction of his tent, leaving Radar fretting equally over the priest's words and over what was left unsaid.  
  
~ 


	57. Chapter 68: Last One To The Chopper And...

The gloom seemed to shift as Mulcahy left the compound, but Radar stood there in a high state of inward agitation and outward lethargy, not moving until he was slammed into from behind by the door of the mess tent, which had been roused from ITS dormant state by the hustling bulk of a Malkavian ghoul who was currently praying to Jesus and all the disciples never, ever to let him get embraced into that clan.  
  
"Oh, Jeez, Radar, you scared me, I didn't see you there! Whyn'cha learn not to stand in front of doorways like that?"  
  
Radar quickly regained his balance, "Well, I didn't see anyplace else to stand..." he rambled distractedly.  
  
Sparky shook his head, "Ha, ha..." he uttered sarcastically, and began to hustle across camp toward the hill and chopperpad. Radar shook off the odd sopor, the feeling like the earth was a thick mud clinging to his feet, and hastened after him.  
  
"Hey, Sparky?" he called out, the traditional formulaic phone call conversation beginning to run through his head and out his mouth.  
  
"Yeah, Radar?"  
  
"You one of /them/?"  
  
Sparky was quiet for a few meters of hurried walking, then he turned and looked back a second to the one who was trailing him. "Kinda." He admitted.  
  
"Why didn't you ever tell me? I thought we told each other everything. Just, everything."  
  
Sparky shook his head, not looking back again as he tried to cut the conversation off with a querulous, "Look, Radar, I'm really not allowed to talk about it at ALL. They'll get rid of me if I do."  
  
Radar tried to chuckle, but was getting a little winded at the pace at which Sparky was headed up the hillside. He hardly noted the exceptional endurance of his friend, however, but panted after him, "Get rid of you? But then you'd be able to go back to the States, huh?"  
  
Sparky snorted as he approached the helicopter, "Yeah, in a coffin, maybe."  
  
"In a--" Radar was grateful for Sparky's slowing as they approached the vehicle, "But... so you mean, even though you're a... you can still... you know..."  
  
Sparky leaned back into the back of the chopper. "Die? Yeah." Came his familiar voice.  
  
"What, and can they-- the other ones, can they die, too-- or, again-- or, whatever?"  
  
Sparky yanked free a small black suitcase from the tiny passenger's area behind the pilot's seat. "Yeah, sure. An' it's the weirdest thing, too, when they do... turn into a little pile of ashes. Look, Radar, I gotta get this back to my Reg-- to the Sen-- to the Colonel."  
  
Sparky turned and hurried down the hill even faster than he'd hastened up it.  
  
Radar looked down after him, still breathing heavily, and his aspect becoming more and more disturbed as he repeated, "Pile... ashes..."  
  
His eyes widened, "Dust," he groaned, and made two steps toward the grassy edge of the hill before kneeling down and throwing up at the thought of having walked through the remains of his newfound friend.  
  
~ 


	58. Chapter 69: Nowhere Camp In A Vampire C...

Joles turned aside to face the dark wall and his waiting servant, the light from the movie which had long since lost his attention, but not that of his lovely bride, and he tapped gently on the sterile surface of the syringe before slipping it into a vein made rigid by his intense concentration. Watching it with barely contained freneticism, he trembled then relaxed as he turned the needle back over to his ghoul. He let out a deep breath, then worked for a moment to regulate his breathing and his heartbeat, which he'd recently found, to his terror, had almost stopped again. How was he supposed to keep in good health if he can't even maintain a circulation?  
  
When the case was swiftly closed up again, Joles ignored the groveling ghoul at his side, turning back to the screen: the movie was just ending.  
  
He cringed briefly and lifted a hand as the lights came back on, and replaced his hand on Irene's shoulder as she finally roused from her reverie.  
  
The kine applauded genially, but some were loaded down with sleep, others making lusty eyes at one another, and they stretched and shuffled and began to go their several ways.  
  
Joles stood and turned to face the generally bleary-eyed crowd. Assuming an air of command, he called out, "For everybody involved in the matter of Henry Blake," a few people turned around. Most kept on shuffling out the door, causing Joles to speed up his words a bit, "There will now be a meeting concerning the future of this unit! Attendance is highly---" he trailed off as it was clear that no more than a handful of people were listening to him, "Recommended..." he finished, punctuated by a final slap of the mess tent door falling into place.  
  
Hawkeye turned his affectionate eyes away from the hindside of the nurse who'd fallen under his protection during the scarier bits of the film onto the Seneschal, and they waxed serious. "Oh, leave then alone, Colonel. It's late. Let them go to bed! You remember; you probably had to sleep at one point or another. In case you don't, it's that thing that people have to do every now and again to keep yourself up and running for other things they have to do every now and again. Like some operating. Or even sewing bodies back together. This IS a M*A*S*H unit, after all. The M stands for mobile. One of the three other letters stands for hospital. I think it's the same one that stands for How much those kids' lives out there rely on us."  
  
Henry finally stood up from the spot where he'd spent the movie trying not to look back over his shoulder, trying to pay attention to the movie and not think about the Camarilla or the Brujah or... you know... the Scourge. "He's right, Colonel. Who knows what time the choppers might come over that hill tomorrow. These people need their rest."  
  
Joles simply shook his head, "That won't be a problem. Your people can sleep as much as they require."  
  
Potter lifted an eyebrow, "What? Are you planning on doing all the surgery yourself? This is a M*A*S*H unit!"  
  
Joles smiled, "What M*A*S*H unit?"  
  
B.J. stood up, "The M*A*S*H 4077th, remember? Best care anywhere?"  
  
The seneschal quietly chuckled, "No such thing."  
  
Hawkeye looked at Colonel Potter, who shrugged, and then at Henry, who looked just as puzzled.  
  
"You /are/ nuts." He gaped, wide-eyed.  
  
Joles turned and paced up the side aisle, "No. You're just nonexistent. In the army's eyes, at least. You see... the M*A*S*H 4077th has been... misplaced... somewhat."  
  
"Misplaced?" Colonel Potter demanded, "What in Sam's Hill do you mean, 'misplaced?' I know we're here; all these people know we're here; YOU know we're here."  
  
"But does the Army know you're here? No. No worries, a simple error in paperwork, somewhere along the line, believe me, the Army has made worse mistakes in its day. The files will be found again; but not before I give this place the green light."  
  
"The green light? What, are we a traffic intersection now?" Hawkeye asked, his words humorous, but his tone seriously questioning.  
  
Joles stopped his nervous pacing and collected his thoughts. "This unit has been the site of an egregious breach of the Masquerade. We're going to do what we can to ensure that nobody here knows anything they shouldn't about us," his tone left no room for interpreting what he meant by 'us,' "and then we're going to leave."  
  
He turned to look at Henry, "All of us."  
  
Sidney poked his head into the conversation at this point, cool and level- headed as always, but seeing more clearly than anyone currently present the particular nature of this situation. "And what if, say, ensuring that specific knowledge is not left in the care of certain individuals doesn't prove feasible."  
  
Joles smiled sadly, "Yes, that's always a possibility, I suppose, though one which we'll do everything in our power to prevent. If we were to find the damage to the masquerade irreversible in this area, the M*A*S*H 4077th might have to go missing on a rather more permanent basis. And, of course, I wouldn't be surprised if, having lost the records of friendly and enemy land, there wouldn't be a full-out shelling of the area in... two, three days, tops."  
  
Joles' proclamation was followed by a sour look as something he'd long trained himself to block out crept into his mind and waved at him, proclaiming itself to be 'odd.'  
  
He whipped his head around and stared intently at Hawkeye. "Who told you I was crazy?" he asked in a gentle but forceful tone.  
  
~ 


	59. Chapter 70: The Clamp Won't Hold

Joles turned back to Henry half-threateningly. "Did you," he pointed for emphasis, "tell HIM," he pointed again, now to Hawkeye, "About our species? Jesus Christ! We just WENT OVER THIS!"  
  
Joles looked close to hyperventilation, his face suddenly quite ruddy as he panted and grabbed his chest. Irene ran to him and murmured quiet things next to his face, and he looked calmer.  
  
Henry spoke up, stammering, "No! I mean, no! I-- I hardly remember them, myself..."  
  
"And we never went over them in detail," Irene reminded her husband, "It must have been..."  
  
Sparky tried to disappear into a corner.  
  
"Meg." Joles gritted his teeth in despair. He looked up, his eyes slightly bloodshot. "Did Meg tell you I was crazy? Tell me the truth."  
  
"Yes," Hawkeye replied, without even thinking about it. He stepped back after he spoke, wondering where the reply had come from.  
  
"Thought so," Joles shook his head.  
  
"Accursed Gangrel will be the ruin of me, one day. Did I warn the Prince that her species was not, under ANY circumstances, to be trusted with a position of responsibility within the Camarilla? Yes, I said so, didn't I? I'm not just imagining that after the fact, am I, Irene?"  
  
She shook her head assiduously.  
  
"No, of course not. It was a bad idea. And I daresay we wouldn't be having half the trouble we are now if we'd taken the candidate that the Brujah had sent. At the very least the Sheriff might have come with me, instead, and we might have let the Gangrel have her woodland hunt of Hilson instead of sending her out here to do the work of a real Kindred."  
  
Irene simply nodded, evidently used to his rants of this kind.  
  
The M*A*S*H staff... well, they weren't quite sure what to say.  
  
It was alright. Joles was doing enough talking for the rest of them. "And what does she do, the first second we're out in the field? Turns herself into a... a winecask and starts telling tales to the mortals! And then..." he looked around frantically, "And then she goes and disappears! Where on earth did she get to, anyway? Probably off talking to a goat or something..." He visibly shivered. "Filthy."  
  
"MEG!" he bellowed, as he burst into motion and headed out into the compound, "GET OVER HERE!"  
  
He breathed raggedly with the force he'd used to bellow, and one by one, beginning with his wife, and then his ghoul, and ended by the hesitant young Brujah, came out to join him.  
  
Besides the rough rasping of air along bloody vocal chords, the only reply that came was the rumbling of truck wheels.  
  
This was enough to put Joly off his guard. He lifted his hand to shield his face from the headlights of the approaching vehicle, staring at it as if it were a figment of his imagination until it honked at him and he jumped out of its way. It pulled fully into the compound and the driver hopped out, gripping a wounded shoulder.  
  
To everybody's delight, none of the vampires went after the blood pouring out of the young man's wound.  
  
"Hawk? Hawk?" the young fellow said, "We got lost on the way back to our unit. Fell into some sniper fire. We're hurt, bad. Thank gawd I remembered the way back."  
  
Hawkeye helped the young man sit down to wait for triage to begin, "Thank goodness for that." He mumbled, as the customary PA announcement began to blare over the loudspeaker.  
  
He stood and turned to the Seneschal, who stood muttering to himself next to his bride. "Well, for a nonexistent camp, we're pretty popular, huh, Colonel?" he quipped as the compound began to buzz to life.  
  
"You'd better scrub. You ARE a doctor, right?"  
  
Joly stepped forward, nodding in a dignified yet humble manner, "Well, yes. I might need you to go over a thing or two, for me, though."  
  
Hawkeye and B.J. looked up questioningly as they headed toward the scrub room.  
  
Joles nodded to Irene and followed after them, "I haven't, well, technically performed any surgery since 1837."  
  
~ 


	60. Chapter 71: Game Called On Account Of S...

"Great Grandma Moses!" Colonel Potter's voice boomed over the O.R. as he stopped behind the Malkavian to check up on his work, "I can only wish I'll have that kind of skill when I'm over a century out of practice."  
  
Joles held his hand out to the nurse, who already had the instrument he'd wanted out and ready. "It's a simple matter of familiarity with the workings of the human body. Once you know all the patterns, all the systems... everything else..." he pulled up on a stitch, the first of an incredibly neat and uniform set of stitches, "Falls into place."  
  
He'd had some trouble, at first, with the names of the instruments, and which would be proper to use at any given time, and Hawkeye and B.J. had found obvious amusement in watching the Seneschal get flustered as he tried to explain what it was that he wanted.  
  
After a few minutes of snickers, Joles, not to be laughed at, had simply reached into the nurse's quite malleable Kine mind and had plucked the words directly from her. In time, as she grew used to his presence in her brain, he simply picked the correct images and showed them to her mentally, bending her into a vague extension of himself that needed no verbal instruction.  
  
He did his best to use a sort of prophylactic layer, carefully inserting his will into just those portions of her mind he needed, but the silly creature, finding her work much simpler now than she ever had as her body was more or less under the Malkavian's control, felt free to let her mind wander, and random thoughts came rushing up now and again to poke at Joly's consciousness.  
  
"Hey, you, there." Joles softly uttered, his eyes meeting hers briefly, "Mind on the task, please? As much as I realize that you find Hawkeye Pierce's nocturnal behavior patterns to be absolutely fascinating, I have no need to have those pestiferous images running rampant through my veins."  
  
"Ah- uh--" she stammered, looking around in embarrassment.  
  
"Nevermind the apologies, just be silent and let me work. And, Colonel," his voice now turning polite, "I'd appreciate it if you hovered a little less closely over the operation. The air's taint is growing too concentrated here." He looked from side to side as if inspecting the air. "Yes, yes, too thick here, please, two steps back, and stop sweating, if you can." He went and continued the operation, and Potter obligingly went back to where another patient was being prepped for him.  
  
Across an aisle, Potter caught Pierce's eye, who silently shrugged and twirled a bloody gloved finger about his temple.  
  
With two kindred on staff, the O.R. session was completed in record time: just over two hours. Nevertheless, this brought the hour up to somewhere around 4:30 in the morning, and Joles, after thoroughly washing his hands 4 or 5 times in succession, suggested that they all go to sleep and discuss matters the next evening.  
  
So it was arranged for Sparky to crash in the swamp, and an extra pair of coffins was dragged into the VIP tent for the visitors.  
  
Several members of the camp walked along beside the vampires as they headed back to their tent.  
  
"I have to admit, I was a little impressed." Hawkeye smirked, "Though I don't suppose there are many vampires around who'd get queasy at the sight of blood."  
  
Joles shook his head, laughing, "No, nor at a good many other things, besides."  
  
"I can imagine," Hawkeye commented dourly, "With all those... hm... Nosferatu? Around... those were the ugly ones, right?"  
  
Joles lifted an eyebrow toward Hawkeye. "I hope you don't mind if I borrow some of your surgical equipment tomorrow with which I may suture shut my Scourge's mouth. Where DID that girl run off to, anyhow?" He looked around disdainfully.  
  
"Need anything else, before you go to sleep, sir?" Sparky wedged through the crowd to his regnant's side, gripping the suitcase significantly.  
  
"No, Sparky, I'm quite well, now. You're dismissed," he waved a hand lightly, and the ghoul was gone almost before he finished speaking.  
  
The other four arrived at the door of the VIP tent, the wind blowing unusually cold around them and causing the olive green walls to flutter.  
  
"Say, speaking of Meg, won't she need a place to stay, tonight?"  
  
Joles held open the door for Irene as she stepped inside. "What? Meg didn't tell you about the Gangrel affinity for finding their own places to sleep? I'm positively aghast."  
  
Joles' chuckle was cut short by a squeal of mock-terror verging on utter glee from Irene, within the tent. Within a second she came shuffling out of the tent with her eyes scrunched up in laughter, and she bent double with her hands over her face. "Oh, Joly, darling, go inside, you HAVE to see."  
  
Joles took his wife's hand with a cautious but jovial, "Oh, dear," obviously not concerned, as Irene seemed to find the room so amusing, but feigning consternation nonetheless.  
  
He stepped into the room and adjusted his eyes to the darkness. He laughed loudly himself to see the garlands of garlic and the crucifix decorations which had been etched in or attached to nearly every surface in the tent. He turned and poked his head back out the door as he reached to turn on the light.  
  
"Henry Blake," he chuckled, "What kind of idiots do you keep around this place?"  
  
Henry craned his neck and peered in the room. His eyes rolled in frustration, and he muttered, "Frank..."  
  
"Hm?" the Seneschal queried.  
  
"Oh, nothing, sir, just your standard army-issue idiot."  
  
~ 


	61. Chapter 72: What Was That And Why Does ...

Henry grumbled as he started clearing out the mess, finding himself yielding slightly to tempting Brujah-esque thoughts of heading out to go tear Frank's throat out before sunrise. The Beast in him was content.  
  
Outside, the crowd of Kine dispersed and Joles and Irene stood outside the VIP tent door, out of the way of the armfuls of items that came flying out every once in a while, their arms around each other. They weren't too discontent, either, unlike a certain someone who was lurking nearby.  
  
"Psst! Colonel!" a hushed, nasal voice hissed from the darkness to the side of the VIP tent.  
  
Joly removed his fond cheek from Irene's silky hair and looked down at her, "Did you hear something, dearie?"  
  
Irene nodded, "I think you're being called."  
  
"Over here!" the voice added, rather unnecessarily, as both the kindred were perfectly capable of discerning the exact location of a fieldmouse giving birth on the other side of the mountain.  
  
Joles sighed dramatically and loosed himself from his lady. He spun neatly around and directed his pace toward the voice, rather unconcerned. He spoke as he did so: "And what is the subject matter of a meeting which requires such quarantined conditions?"  
  
"Kiss me, you fool!" Klinger yelled, spinging at the all unwary Seneschal, long white wedding train trailing in the camp muck, rustling dried bouquet clutched in a white-gloved hand.  
  
"What the hell?!" Joles stumbled backward to try to get out of the corporal's way, but was caught up in the hairy Lebanese arms and smooched within an inch of his Unlife.  
  
"Marry me!" Klinger cried, and Irene took a graceful step closer, leaning to peek around the corner and lifting a hand to her mouth to hide a chuckle at the hilarity of the situation.  
  
Joles, gathering his wits, slipped out of the corpsman's grasp and, in an action resembling flight, retreated to Irene's side. "Look, young man, I don't know what you've heard about me, but you're awfully mistaken," he chided.  
  
Klinger waved the bouquet in the manner of one shaking a finger, "Ohhh, no... There's no mistake. You're nuts! Well, look," he gestured down at his wedding dress, "So am I! We're two of a kind! You gotta get me out of this place!  
  
Joles stared intently at Klinger, for a while, waiting until the man in the dress was obscured by swaths of steady color. Steady. Still and steady as the rock of Gibralter. It made Joles nearly sick with envy to look at Klinger's aura.  
  
His face grew stony. "You, friend, if I may call you that without you getting the wrong idea, are most certainly NOT... 'nuts.'"  
  
"Of course I am! Look at me!"  
  
"I AM looking."  
  
"What do I have to do to convince you I'm insane?"  
  
Joles suppressed a low sound of deadly annoyance in his throat. "I'd SUGGEST that you go insane."  
  
Klinger laughed. "I'd even do that to get out!"  
  
Irene, concerned, tried to lift her hand to Joles' chest, tried to soothe his pained heart. "Darling, let's--"  
  
Joles grabbed her hand, a little more roughly than he meant to, then adjusted his grip to a softer, more natural pose, as his turbulent spirit made its way into the inert mists of Klinger's perfectly sane aura. The soul, perfectly non-threatening in its simplicity, didn't even make Joles think twice about entering its confines.  
  
"It is said," he spoke, "that part of sanity is desiring sanity. Why I, in whom this quality is abundant, am denied a gentle and non-reactive spirit like yours, while you, who aspire to destroy yourself, are allowed to walk through the world with madness rolling off of you like water off the back of a duck, I cannot fathom. If it is ever proved to me that insanity is derived simply from performing unusual actions without provocation, I will no longer consider myself a member of my species, but a perverse aberration of the universe, alone and disconsolate."  
  
Joles reached out a mental hand and cajoled the kine's mind a bit, causing an appropriate drastic fear to run down through the corporal's marrow. "But I am not alone, and madness is a real force to be reckoned with. And you,"  
  
Irene whimpered, "Joly, stop..."  
  
"And you... Maxwell Q. Klinger..." Joles continued, nearly trembling with anger, ignoring his wife's pleas, "Who seek in sanity madnesses which you don't understand enough to have the common sense to fear, will find them. In... abundance!"  
  
With these words, he took the mind he's held in his hand and twisted it violently. The colors of Klinger's aura fled in all directions like confused grains of pepper upon the surface of a glass of water, and instantly a whirling suffused it five times as rough and wild as that of the Seneschal himself.  
  
Joles turned and gently led his wife away, meeting Henry in front of the tent.  
  
"Hey, um, sorry for all that mess in there, Colonel." He looked around, "Something wrong out here?"  
  
"Yes, well," Joles replied, smiling faintly, "Nothing /you/ can fix, Henry, let's just... let's all just go to sleep. We'll see how things are in the evening."  
  
Henry looked around, and, seeing nothing, shrugged, and followed the other two kindred into the tent.  
  
~ 


	62. Chapter 73: The Lamb Of God, The Son Of...

A simple sound awoke him, not lingering long enough to be registered fully in the waking priest's mind. It was a noise like a small child knocking on a door two rooms away, a sound clearly intended for the listener's ears, but not quite distinct enough to not have been imagined. Looking toward the door as he rose from his bed, Father Mulcahy discerned that it was still the dark of night. He stood up and reached to turn on the light, and the world around him turned from black to blurry brown-grey. The walls were being wandered over by black sigils of varied sorts, many more than he'd seen since they first started appearing to him, which all seemed to look at him for a brief instant before conferring among themselves in low tones. In that same brief instant of stillness, a figure made of black substance sat hunched in a corner of the tent. It looked up at him with a pleading blank space in the middle of its forehead, and disappeared.  
  
The Father did not panic. He seemed incapable of panic. Instead he moved, slowly, too slowly, he thought, and turned out the lights again. The tent returned to its normal silence and he walked toward the door.  
  
When he emerged into the compound, Father Mulcahy found the darkness banished by the rising sun, a sight that warmed his heart and caused a smile to position itself meekly on his face as he looked down, as if by instinct, to a set of confused and mingled tracks that were imprinted in loosely packed dirt.  
  
Following the tracks into the small garden by the side of the tent, he found that a few plants had been stripped of leaves, and he reached down to take the ailing-looking stems in his hands, and they flourished again, becoming even more verdant than they were previously. The plant in the Hunter's hand glistened under the light of the rising sun, then shuddered in a foul breeze as the blonde light went white-blue in intensity.  
  
The priest found himself falling to his knees, pulling his white cap down over his eyes as he craned his neck up to see what had happened.  
  
The morning star had grown larger in the sky, and was laughing as it did its impersonation of the sun's route. The sun's light was drowned out in the brighter glare of this impostor. The breeze grew into a wind and then a torrent of cold winter air, down from the mountains, and it whistled and filled the priest's ears with the sounds of angels laughing. A trickle of viscous liquid spilled from his ear and traveled down the line of his jaw. He huddled down and shut his eyes against the bright light and the wind, and tried to lift his hand to feel what was dripping there.  
  
"Blood..." he thought. But as his fingertip caught the edge of the liquid, he found it too sticky and thick to be any such thing. Looking up, he clearly heard the quiet twitter of a bird in a tree, and he brought his hand forward to inspect in the now-midday, warm, yellow sun. The goo on his fingers was likewise warm and yellow, liquid sunlight. He felt a sharp tug on a bit of his hair at the temple, and then a trembling warm tongue lick across the flat bit of skin under his ear, then dig inside it to lick at the honey that was issuing from therein.  
  
He turned in terror, only to find himself face-to-face with a dappled grey he-goat with long curved horns. The goat, angry at the sudden disappearance of its treat, lowered its head and butted angrily, shoving the priest back into the garden of now incredibly-grown vegetation.  
  
He sprawled with no clear direction, having trouble disentangling himself from the thick growth, and finally stopped, looking out into the compound as he saw a triumphal procession coming unimpeded through the minefield into the camp.  
  
And no sooner were they spotted than they were there, all singing joyous refrains to the glory of God and his divine wrath, all turning and hailing the supine chaplain as they passed, smiling at him and staring at the top of his head, where a curling ivy tendril out of nowhere removed the stunned hunter's cap and a wreath of laurel seemed to sprout of its own volition, perfectly fitted to him as he stood up, being held aloft now on a rostrum of growing foliage, and received the cheers the procession sent up to him.  
  
And then, as they appeared, the revelers dissipated into the camp's atmoshphere. All was quiet. Mulcahy didn't breathe, feeling an anticipation he didn't quite know how to read. Something was about to happen.  
  
A light, piteous bleat sounded in the distance.  
  
It was the bleating of the lamb.  
  
The Lamb.  
  
The bleat came and went, leaving the air cold and silent and feeling violated by the slight scuffle of the priest's shoes as he leapt down into the loose dirt of the compound. His mouth open, he bent nearly double, stumbling forward. From a distance, the gleaming white wool betrayed the divinity. The lamb came unswervingly closer, the coat becoming more dull and dusty grey and yellow, the lamb itself less full of life, stumbling as it walked.  
  
It could hardly reach the Father's feet. Three yards away, the tiny hoofprints in the dirt became slightly tinged with red. A yard, and a gash opened itself along the emaciated creature's visible ribs. As it came within a foot of the crouching priest, it gave a pitiful bleat, caught his eye, and expired, its neck open and gushing blood.  
  
Father Mulcahy stood back up, trembling, and, in a habitual manner, lifted his hand to grip his white cap, but when he brought it to his chest to crumple it in his usual manner, he felt his fingernails digging into foliage, and looked startled to see the Caesar's crown clutched in his hands.  
  
He let out a yell and dropped the plantlife onto the dead lamb.  
  
His yell echoed in the morning light that suffused his tent as he sat up and reached for his glasses, shaken to the very marrow by the dream.  
  
~ 


	63. Chapter 74: Daylight Offers A Moment To...

In the mess tent bleary nurses and privates wandered in for breakfast at the now-growing customary hour of 2 o'clock in the afternoon. True to the Seneschal's word, no wounded had arrived. Neither had any mail, any deliveries, or any phone calls from the outside world. Those who didn't know about the quarantine that the Camarilla had placed upon the camp's boundaries were blissful in their ignorance; they awoke at a leisurely hour, sunned themselves, taking advantage of the last few warm days of the year, and played games of football in the compound. Those who were in the know, however, trembled and thrashed in the vampiric net, anxious to be free to return to the humdrum, every-day terrors of war.  
  
Radar scurried into the mess tent, where Colonel Potter perched unnervedly at the head of a table, Hawkeye at his right and B.J. on his left. Next to Hawkeye, Sidney sat with his legs crossed in his normal lax manner, attentive to the conversation but, again, typical of him, slightly removed. Down the bench from B.J. were Majors Burns and Houlihan, Houlihan and Burns, evidently made up from their little lover's spat, the both of them fuming with indignation.  
  
"Why don't we just take down the VIP tent and let those-- things get a little sun?" Margaret snarled out her vindictive opinion.  
  
Hawkeye put his hand flat on the table and glared at her, "Don't forget, one of "those things" is still Henry Blake."  
  
Margaret straightened her shoulders proudly and tossed her chin up, "I don't care. You should have SEEN the way he was looking at me, I-- I could have--" she sputtered.  
  
"Out of dirty words, Hot Lips?" Hawkeye jeered, "Or is it just that you could have done something --really-- unspeakable?" He leant over suggestively, "If you need some help increasing your vocabulary later, you can find me in the supply tent. I'll give you a whole declension... just let me figure out your case, number and gender..."  
  
"All right, kiddos, that's enough," Colonel Potter cut in, lifting a hand as a barrier between the chief surgeon and the head nurse. Then, turning to Margaret, who was doing her best to ignore Hawkeye and give the Colonel an image of rapt attention: "Believe me, the idea's crossed my mind."  
  
"Colonel!" Hawkeye tried to cut in, but Potter swung his hand around, pointing his index finger out in a warning gesture.  
  
"The idea HAS crossed my mind." He repeated more firmly, then, his voice gentling out, "But I don't see what blessed good it'd do us. Seems to me these vampires are everywhere, in charge of everything! If we got rid of these three, this Camarilla would just send more. Or, of course, they might not even do that. If they thought we were fighting back, they'd have us living in a crater before we could say--"  
  
"Sir?" Radar piped meekly at the Colonel's side, "I tried everything on the phone, sir, just everything." The Pooka reached a hand up to his nose to give the slipping Chimera a little boost; his hands were clad in bulky yellow-brown kitchen gloves which didn't seem like they should be staying on at all. "I gave our location to at least seventeen different people; all of them said that we couldn't possibly be there, and told us where to go to look for ourselves! We could be anywhere between Ouijongbu and Indianapolis, for all they've told me. I even tried giving them some places that we AREN'T, but they said we weren't there, either."  
  
Hawkeye shuffled down the bench, rousing Sidney from his placid state enough for him to move down the bench as well, leaving room for Radar to plop down and look distressed.  
  
"See what I mean?" Potter asked rhetorically, "Great Caesar's Ghost! They're everywhere!" He sighed and took up the gloomy disposition of the changeling to his right. It quickly spread across the table, and even Frank, who was doing his best to look righteously indignant, whimpered gently.  
  
Margaret settled her hands on the table in front of her and let out a weary breath, the gravity of the situation weighing on her.  
  
Father Mulcahy, looking more wide awake than any of the crowd, burst in the Mess Tent door and looked around briefly before hastening to Colonel Potter's side. "Sir," he whispered, his breath rushing out and carrying the words along with it. "Have you seen Klinger?"  
  
"No," Colonel Potter glowered, "And I don't have time to deal with his shenanigans today. Just tell me what he's wearing now, so I won't fall over when I see him..."  
  
"It's not THAT, sir. I think there's really something wrong with him."  
  
The rest of the table held its breath, the priest's words hanging in the air. The words which, three days prior, would have meant that he thought Klinger had come down with a bug, or that Klinger was looking a little peaked. Now... now it could mean anything.  
  
Potter finally broke the silence with a sigh. "All right. This meeting is in recess. Let's go see Klinger." He batted his hands on the table and shook his head resignedly.  
  
~ 


	64. Chapter 75: Reflections In A Broken Mir...

Yo Klinger then wife cot she Stood and  
  
She looked and and she No  
  
No, I don't think so, no I don't think it's my husband  
  
Klinger and Laverne said, don't you think I would if I could but I just-- can't--  
  
And its part of the  
  
The thing is it won't come  
  
But honey doesn't matter I'll still be coming the fools they  
  
Son, you okay? then and the mean, mean, war I can't go home Not in this i need to go to  
  
Mud i can't stay here too much mud going to clean it clean the  
  
Take that one and this one and hold it close and clean the  
  
Sorry honey it just won't come  
  
Don't look like he looks and not want me to come  
  
I don't want to stay here I want to go but they  
  
They say, they look and they say, "Son, you're a disgrace to this man's army and all that it stands for" and don't you think I would if I could but I just can't-- and I can't go and I can't stay and I won't leave and it won't come and  
  
He says "you're right let's take it out its blood isn't the same color as what comes off of those choppers" and it just won't come and I won't go and leave me here and  
  
Oh, Laverne, I want to go and  
  
~ 


	65. Chapter 76: An Arrow Sent To Hit A Mark

"I dunno, Father," Radar peeped, immediately upon entering the motor pool shed, "He looks okay to me." Radar stepped to one side and let several others file in behind him, Potter, Hawkeye and Sidney lining up in front of the cot that had found its way into the shed for purposes on which Mulcahy didn't linger as he followed the group in, turning to accost Radar.  
  
"What do you mean, he 'looks okay to you'?" His voice riled slightly in anger, but he calmed himself and took note of the odd expression the Pooka was giving the afflicted corpsman. It was something like awe, mingled with nervousness.  
  
"Radar," Mulcahy leaned closer, gripping the Corporal's upper arm firmly, "Did you have anything to do with this?" Just what he'd need... another day of running around trying to rescue another staff member's brain from the jaws of this monsterous la-- lamb. The dream flickered back into his mind, shaking him up a bit, but he shook back, shaking it off and returning to the issue at hand.  
  
"Yo, Klinger," Sidney, meanwhile, leaned down, trying to rouse the corpsman from the upright fetal position he'd taken up on the cot, the hem of his white wedding dress twisted in his hand, slightly torn, and the entire outfit smeared with mud.  
  
"No!" Radar hissed, "Or, I don't know... I don't think so!" He stared back at Klinger, his jaw gaping open at the brightness that flared and flickered waveringly in him.  
  
Radar's head tilted in a familiar manner, and he looked up, as far as the Father could see, to a corner of his glasses frames. Mulcahy was silent until the Pooka looked back to him.  
  
"You okay, son?" Colonel Potter urged.  
  
"God says that no, I didn't do it," Radar offered, "But he said for me to tell you hi, while I'm talking to you, now, 'cause I just might not, anymore."  
  
Father Mulcahy rolled his eyes at the reported source of Radar's information, knowing fully well that it was that dragon that was appraising him of the situation.  
  
"Well, does he know who-- what-- wait. What?" Mulcahy cut himself off as his concern for Klinger finally yielded enough space to notice the dagger-like look that Radar was giving him. It was unnerving, seeing that cheerful countenance so angry, and it made his fingers itch for the sword he'd recently learned to pull from the air. But the next words from the Pooka's mouth stopped him still in his tracks.  
  
"He knows. About Meg."  
  
Mulcahy trembled violently. "Good lord, Radar, can't you speak straight for just one moment? Who does?"  
  
Radar shrugged off the attempt of the shaken Hunter to subdue his wilder nature. "Just about anyone," he lied infuriatingly, tugging at Mulcahy's ire to the point where he had to rub his thumb over the cross on his collar to calm himself. Obviously, everyone couldn't know... but, at the same time, at least one person did. It was enough to drive a man mad.  
  
Speaking of madmen, Radar turned his attention away from Father Mulcahy and squeezed up beside Hawkeye to join in the questioning of Klinger.  
  
The others' attention diverted to the corporal, the chaplain went from the motor pool shed in a fog. The motor pool itself deserted except for the slumbering form of the backwater attendant, Mulcahy slipped into the passenger's side of one of the jeeps, and sat there, his hands clenched and his fingers entwined in a knot just between his knees.  
  
He turned his head on his bowed neck to look pleadingly in the direction of the empty driver's seat. He wanted, above all, to know where all this was heading.  
  
He'd been sure of his actions the previous night. He'd felt more sure of it than anything else he'd ever done. So why was this lamb coming back to haunt him? Why was he doubting, now? And where was this doubt coming from? The angels were silent: oppressively? Disapprovingly? Or was that his imagination? Was it perhaps the simple silence of the free will God gave man?  
  
'I am,' the priest murmured to himself, 'His servant. I have carried out his work.' He tested these words with himself, putting them out into the air ahead of him so that he could inspect them more closely. They seemed to him to be right and just. But now, now the angels said nothing. Had he become spoiled? All his life, he'd had to guess at what it was God wanted out of him, and now, now he'd had His own words whispered in his ear (he felt the goat's tongue licking at his temple). Could he ever go back to guessing, to stabbing in the dark (blade hitting flesh, flesh yielding, splitting, dissolving into a shower of ash), to making mistakes (his disapproving stare reflected in the dragon-lenses of the Pooka)?  
  
"Yes," he answered himself gently, "I have to."  
  
He lifted his hands to the dashboard of the jeep, and put his head down on them, falling back into a comfortable and familiar routine of prayer to fill the silence of the void left by the angels' silence, and felt sufficiently comforted that he soon drifted off to sleep.  
  
He was so exhausted from his sleepless night, on top of everything else that'd been going on recently, that he didn't wake up to the sound of a large clatter of tools from inside the shed, accompanied by a confusion of shouting.  
  
Rizzo didn't wake up either. Probably because he'd crawled under the jeep as drunk as a skunk only a few hours earlier and was thoroughly passed out.  
  
A flash of white as the shed door slammed open, and a scream, barely distinguishable as words, of, "OH GOD, LAVERNE, I DIDN'T MEAN IT, I DIDN'T NO DON'T MAKE ME I WON'T GO I'LL--"  
  
The door shuffled back shut as the scuffle returned inside, but soon a frazzled-looking Radar led the way as Potter, Pierce, and Freedman all followed him out of the shed.  
  
"Oh, boy," Radar whispered in astonishment, "I've only seen one person go that batty before-- my uncle Ed when he got told his wife just had his sixth daughter."  
  
Hawkeye shook his head, his eyes wide. "I've only seen one person act like that, before, too:" he looked around, "Henry Blake, in the OR at dawn."  
  
The entire group fell silent for a moment, then everyone began at once: Sidney with, "You're not saying that Henry--" Potter with, "You think one of those new--" Radar's voice lifting above the rest in a horrified shriek, "You think Klinger's a vampire?!?"  
  
Hawkeye held out his hands, "It would explain why he didn't want to come out here and say hello to the nice fresh sunshine."  
  
"But it wouldn't explain, for example," Potter objected, "What in the name of Carrie's corset he was going on about!"  
  
Hawkeye shook his head, "No... I think, for an explanation of THAT, we should turn to our resident expert on the topic of cobwebs." He gestured to Sidney.  
  
"Don't look at me;" Sidney protested, "I hardly got a look at him. From what I could see, I could wear out three brand-new couches and never get to the bottom of what's up with that kid. The weird thing is--"  
  
"There's a weird thing, too?" Hawkeye gaped.  
  
"The weird thing is that psychoses like that aren't supposed to fly out of the woodwork at a moment's notice. I've come up here to examine Klinger maybe a hundred times since he's been here, and I've never seen a trace, not even a hint of all this. Unless he's been taking acting lessons behind our back, which I seriously doubt, a mental problem that seems this severe would have required many years of stressful conditions a lot worse than working at a M*A*S*H unit, I can tell you that, right now."  
  
Hawkeye and Potter milled about anxiously in front of the shed while Sidney was expostulating. The speech was punctuated by a shout from Hawkeye as Radar rushed around and popped up in front of him, moving like a whirlwind, "Hawkeye!" he hissed, in realization.  
  
Hawkeye grabbed his chest, "No, Radar, I'm not in the market for a size eight and a half cardiac arrest, today, but please try back tomorrow."  
  
"No, Hawkeye, really. Remember what... what Meg said last night, about the, uh... the Vantrue?"  
  
Hawkeye squinted, "The Vantrue, the, um, the magic ones?"  
  
Radar shook his head, "No, the ones who are all... you know..." he leaned forward, "Crazy!"  
  
Hawkeye furrowed his brow, "Oh, no, Radar, that was the Malkavi--" Hawkeye started to remind the Pooka, then, his face fell, and he turned with a devastated look back to the shed. "The Malkavians. That Colonel."  
  
"Pierce, what in blue blazes are you talking about?!" Potter bellowed.  
  
Hawkeye cut him off, "Sidney, go get a sedative from post-op, quick." Sidney ran off and Hawkeye looked back at the door to the shed. "Jesus Christ. This is ridiculous, we've got to get out of here, let people know where we are. And Klinger..." he shook his head, sadly, his ramblings simply serving to irritate the Colonel further.  
  
"Pierce! I'd like to know what's going on in my own BLESSED camp! If you don't start talking sense, the next morphine Sid brings out will be for YOU."  
  
Hawkeye looked up from his intent ire. "I'm sorry, Colonel, of course. You see, Radar and I, we--" Hawkeye faltered.  
  
"Overheard!" Radar piped in, helpfully.  
  
"Yeah, we overheard Meg-- the, uh, the Gangrel-- talking about the Malkavians, and about how they have a tendency to infect, as it were, people around them with insanity, and..."  
  
"And..." Potter led gently, lowly, seeming to know where this was going.  
  
"And about how Colonel Travaneau was one."  
  
"Great Mary and Joseph." The Colonel uttered, Sidney Freedman running back past with the requested syringe, and entering the shed.  
  
Hawkeye, meanwhile, looking out over the motor pool, finally spotted the dormant Chaplain in the passenger's seat of one of the jeeps. "Speaking of," he mumbled to Colonel Potter, and ran over, shaking the priest from his nap. "Father!"  
  
Father Mulcahy found himself scooting over into the driver's seat before he had quite regained his wits, Sidney, Potter, and Radar collaborating to put the unconscious form of the white-clad corporal into the passenger's seat the chaplain had just been occupying.  
  
"Father," Hawkeye ran around to the driver's side to explain the situation, "You've got to get Klinger out of here, take him to the-- to the- -" he looked over at Sidney, who picked up, "To the Seoul sector U.S. Military Asylum."  
  
"Yeah," Hawkeye nodded, "And, for God's sake, let people know we're still here!"  
  
Mulcahy easily shook off the dazes of slumber and nodded firmly, his heart stirred up by the call to action. He reached around and almost seemed to snatch the set of keys Colonel Potter was about to hand to him out of thin air. In a split second more, he was off.  
  
~ 


	66. Chapter 77: Driving Him Crazy

The jeep flew unceasingly over the elbow-deep potholes that marked the road out of camp. It seemed to the Father that the Jeep ride embodied the whole of his mood, the whole of his situation. As the chaplain and the unconscious corporal flew down the road, there wasn't anything that could stop them. Father Mulcahy put the lead out and removed his hat, pushing it down in between the seats so that it wouldn't get blown away in the breeze created by the hasty 25-mile-an-hour speed.  
  
He was becoming so convinced, bolstered by the balmy breeze and warm sunlight, that no vampire could stand in the way of his getting the M*A*S*H 4077th out of its current predicament that even as he turned a wide corner of road and saw the MP post up ahead, he thought nothing of it. There were, after all, MP posts all over the countryside out here. He deftly halted the jeep a mere few inches in front of the barricade, and his foot hovered impatiently over the gas as he smiled at the approaching MP and saluted.  
  
It was only after the MP began to speak that the Father's crest began to fall.  
  
"Ex-- excuse me?" he asked.  
  
"I said," the MP repeated, "The road up ahead's not secured. You'll have to turn back."  
  
"But the road," Mulcahy protested, "goes to Seoul. Has Seoul been taken by the North Koreans?" he further asked, pointing out the ridiculous nature of that claim.  
  
"Look, smart-aleck, I've got my orders, here, and they're to let nobody pass along this road. There's hostile fire back there!"  
  
Mulcahy grew understandably frustrated. "Look, I work in a M*A*S*H unit not 10 miles back that way--" he pointed, "If there was fighting up there, don't you think we'd know about it?"  
  
The MP frowned in consideration of the question, then, in a manner that signified the action as his last resort for all confusing situations, he consulted his clipboard. "There's no M*A*S*H unit down that way," he affirmed with the conviction of a stone, having read it on The Clipboard.  
  
"Yes, there is," Mulcahy brightened up as he began to explain, "The M*A*S*H 4077th--"  
  
"Bugged out three days ago and nobody's heard hide nor hair of them since."  
  
"But we didn't--"  
  
"We've got surveillance records-- they're nowhere in the area anymore."  
  
"But I just came--"  
  
"There are planes sweeping possible resettlement locations, but no luck."  
  
"If you'll just LOOK, I've got identification--"  
  
"Father J.F.P Mulcahy, hm, M*A*S*H 4077th. Nope, sorry, Father, this can't be right."  
  
Mulcahy's eyes widened. Suddenly leaping up onto the driver's seat of the jeep, he hurled these harsh words down onto the heads of the MPs:  
  
"Listen to yourselves! You're trying to tell me that I'm not who I am! Does that make any sense to you? Does it, really? And does it make any sense that an entire unit should disappear off the face of the earth, there one day and gone the next? Does it make any sense to block off a road you had to travel down to set up the guardpost? And where will the people come from who'll relieve you after your shift? From the enemy territory, or from the nonexistent M*A*S*H unit down the road? What's the matter with you? Can't you see the hands, the-- the cold, dead hands pulling the wool over your eyes? Don't you see the Camarilla playing you all for fools? Look out your windows at night! Look good and hard and you'll see those lurking in the darkness of the world, orchestrating at midnight the jokes you tell at lunch! The vampires who herd you like so many cattle-- turn your heads, cattle! Look back at the figure who rides the pale horse in your very midst!"  
  
The MPs held a brief, silent conference with their eyes, and, in unison, lifted their sidearms. One of them spoke, "Okay, look, nutso, just calm down, and sit down, turn the jeep around and go back wherever you came from. Our orders are to not let anybody pass."  
  
Father Mulcahy, outmanned and outgunned, and the case for his sanity not corroborated in any way by the man sleeping in the wedding dress next to him, sat. And turned. And drove.  
  
And drove. His face, once bright with promise, grew dull, finding the same obstacle on any road he could think of that would lead a significant distance away from the camp. Coming to a meeting of three dirt paths, two of which he'd traveled down before, the third of which led back to camp, he stopped the Jeep and rested his arms on the steering wheel. He stared straight ahead. Between the two roads, a steep, hilly area with brush and rocks nearing on towards the size of boulders. Sitting up straight and setting his jaw, Father Mulcahy positioned his foot over the gas pedal, determining himself to drive straight on until he gets somewhere or die trying.  
  
And Klinger? Would he risk the life of an innocent bystander in this adventure of his? He turned his head and looked, hardly surprised to see the marks of the beast's work on the dark Lebanese skin. The sight steeled him further, and bolstered his resolution. He was going to get out of the grasp of the Camarilla, once and for all.  
  
And he was, too... he was about to drive all the way to the coast, over mountains and through rivers and parting grasses as tall as the jeep itself, if it meant freedom from the wide grasp of the vampiric society.  
  
That is, he was fully intending to do all these things -- the breath of God was in him -- if he only wasn't out of gas.  
  
~ 


	67. Chapter 78: Night Falls On Father Mulca...

The strangled gurgling of the engine was drowned out in the ears of the corporal who was just now coming around by the screaming of his wife in his ear. She was standing beside the jeep, her arms flailing as she gestured wildly and bellowed at him to wake up, to get up, and to get the hell out of that dress.  
  
Klinger groggily pushed himself into a half-sitting position, and shook his head, "I wore it on our wedding day and now it just won't come--" was all he said before his words were choked off.  
  
Mulcahy turned his head in surprise; to Klinger, it seemed like indignation.  
  
"Klinger, you're awake!" he exclaimed gently, moving to put a supportive hand on the corpsman's shoulder.  
  
"Klinger, you're disgraceful." Klinger heard, and sat up further, putting a hand on his own shoulder and fingering the lacy trim there fondly, needily, but hopelessly ashamed, and then--  
  
"I know. I know, but it just won't-- oh, god!"  
  
He flung his arm back over the seat of the jeep, clinging onto it for dear life as he spied the city of Toledo stretched out below him as he looked up into the air, feeling a nauseating rush of a feeling of being about to hurdle downward (upward?) to meet his end on the city streets.  
  
"Klinger! What is it?" Mulcahy swerved under the steering wheel to put his hands on the sprawling shoulders of the terrified Klinger, "Klinger, tell me what's wrong..."  
  
"You sick, deluded idiot," Klinger heard, "Why don't you go back where you came from."  
  
A laughing came from the back seat of the jeep, a sound of a man laughing, "Ha! You want us to take that thing back? Not if you gave me five dollars. I've seen pig carcasses made better excuses for men than that... cross-dressing freak."  
  
Morty laughed. Soon Laverne's incisive cackle joined along with him. The priest who leaned over him glared in disgust, but soon began to laugh, himself, at the pitiful excuse of a sinner. From the sky the guffaws and sniggers of the entire city of Toledo fell on his head like so many shell casings.  
  
Mulcahy, watching over Klinger in concern, and perhaps a bit paranoid, himself, looked back into the back seat as Klinger looked there, then up in the sky. The sky was deep blue, the remains of a beautiful day fading into the cool indigo of evening, and the jeep was empty except for the two of them. A bird chirped curiously at them from a bush.  
  
The chaplain knelt on the driver's seat, and hunched down close to Klinger, "Calm down, Klinger. I know it's hard, but just... concentrate... tell me what's wrong. Talk to me, Klinger..."  
  
Klinger visibly gritted his teeth and, pulling on a torn and filthy hem of white train, he lifted the material slowly toward Mulcahy's questioning face. "It won't-- I know, I know, but it just won't come off," Klinger replied tearily to who-knows-whom-or-what.  
  
Father Mulcahy looked down briefly, then back up into Klinger's eyes, terrified by their dark circles and their frenzied stare. "The... the mud?" he questioned gently, "Well," he tried, "I'm sure we can get it washed. We can send it out to Seoul," he rattled in a soothing voice, "We can get it dry-cleaned. You-- you'll be dazzling in white again, soon enough." He offered the frazzled Klinger a smile.  
  
Klinger stared intently back at him, his forehead wrinkling as his eyebrows knitted upward, at least showing that he was hearing something of what the priest said. "No." He started, calmly, at least, "No! You can't make me go! Father! Don't make me leave! Good God, no!" he began to flail, sitting up and whacking the priest in the underside of the chin with an elbow.  
  
Father Mulcahy, taken aback, was knocked backward and tumbled out of the jeep onto the rocky ground. He could vaguely hear Klinger's pumps shuffling on the ground; looking over, he managed to note that one of the white shoes had lost its heel before he lost consciousness.  
  
~ 


	68. Chapter 79: Those Who Flee The Rising S...

Mulcahy woke up with a snorting echoing in his ears, and his vision unblurred to reveal a night sky positively shining with stars that cast a faint light over the countryside. The planets blazed, Venus brightest of all, outshining even the moon, who was a tiny scrap of a sliver in the heavens.  
  
The beauty of the night only impressed itself upon the prone priest for an instant. Then he shivered, the memories of earlier peeking up into his conscious mind. It must have been hours at that point since he'd taken the fall from the jeep. Klinger could be almost anywhere in Korea, raving like a lunatic at the locals or perhaps fallen somewhere himself, hurt, hit by a sniper, stepped on a land mine; anything might have happened, by now.  
  
Suddenly the sky in front of him was eclipsed by a roving warm brown muzzle, and a warm tongue ran over his face. He wondered if he wasn't dreaming again, and listened hastily for a bleating of lambs. He heard nothing, and was relieved.  
  
Calmly lifting his hand to the horse's chin, he moved its face and sat up, aching slightly but not much the worse for wear.  
  
Father Mulcahy had to take a moment to stroke the long nose of the animal, the white stripe that ran down its brown nose separating two of the most sweet and expressive eyes Mulcahy had ever seen on an animal. He had stood up before he noticed the woman who was sitting on the horse's bare back.  
  
"Oh..." Mulcahy exclaimed lightly, reaching up a hand to straighten his glasses. "Good evening."  
  
The woman, he noted, was no peasant, dressed in silks of reds and greens, her face not hardened and cracked by the sun, but pale and smooth and-- pale.  
  
She slowly and deliberately began to pronounce Korean words upon him. His mouth gaped open. He didn't understand what she was saying, but he knew. He knew she was one of them... kind of.  
  
"You are... Doctor? Four Oh Seven Seven... M*A*S*H?" A man in less expensive-looking clothing bowed as he questioned the Father, and he, seeming to know that this was just a translator, after being startled by his initial appearance, turned back to the woman, straightening his shoulders in a brave display which seemed to make her smile.  
  
"No. I'm a priest. But I do come from that unit. I suppose you're looking for the rest of your party." He accused, raising his voice in the slightest of degrees.  
  
The peasant spoke in Korean, and the woman replied in such low tones that Mulcahy could hardly make them out.  
  
"Wise man, priest," the man translated roughly, "There are ones like us, at M*A*S*H?"  
  
The female was watching him carefully. Even the horse seemed to lift its ears in expectation of an answer. Mulcahy was put on guard by the question. "What, does the Camarilla even keep secrets from its own members? Yes, your Seneschal is there, and his... companion... and Colonel Blake. Your Scourge, sad to say, is no longer with us." The presence of this new vampire steeled his resolve, and his voice didn't waver in the insinuation of the Gangrel's death.  
  
For the first time, the woman took her eyes off of Mulcahy and was thoroughly attentive to her translator's words. Then, having heard, she began to speak again, and she squeezed her legs gently on the gentle mare's sides, the horse responding well to the command, walking backward and to one side to uncover a white-clad body prone on the ground, a stain of darkening blood having crept over a patch of the unmistakable wedding gown.  
  
"Did those ones do this?" the man asked as Mulcahy recoiled at the sight.  
  
He glowered up at the woman, once he had regained his wits, which only took a moment. "No! But I'm betting I know who did."  
  
The woman remained placid, though the horse looked a little shaken from his outburst. She spoke and it was duly translated:  
  
"Not the outward harm. That he did, to himself, very willing. The inward harm, the harm in his mind."  
  
Mulcahy watched the implacable woman, unnerved by her steadiness, "He did that to himself? I don't believe you. I know what you are."  
  
Having heard it from her translator, she lifted a hand in a yielding fashion, and Mulcahy was told, "It is old custom here that, asking a drink of a person, you should not pour for yourself, but let them pour for you. You are to be told he will survive the wounds in his arms, but not those in his mind. Tell us who damaged him there."  
  
The chaplain shivered at both the grisly explanation and the prediction for Max's future. He finally responded, "Your seneschal."  
  
The vampire deftly dismounted the horse, and Father Mulcahy stepped back, running into the translator as he did so.  
  
"Do not fear," the man uttered in comforting tones. "Your jeep is not working. You cannot bear your friend back to your M*A*S*H on foot. Take the horse. Care for him."  
  
Mulcahy felt awkward on the receiving end of a kind gesture from a bloodsucking monster, but he forced himself to utter a short thank you. He squinted his eyes and leaned forward a bit as the woman and the translator lifted Klinger's body onto the horse.  
  
"Are you going to be coming with us?"  
  
The man and woman conferred for a while before the translator stepped back around the brown horse and answered, "No. There will be time, later, for us to meet your Camarilla. For now, you will say nothing to them of this."  
  
He walked over and led the horse to the confused Father, lifting his hand to stroke the soft underside of her chin. "She will follow you. She's a good beast. You may keep her."  
  
~ 


	69. Chapter 80: The Finest Kine

The M*A*S*H 4077th huddled under the encroaching night like a bird under the overhanging eave of a roof. Even those for whom the day had passed in carefree revelry now looked longingly to the last lights and wondered where the day had gone and what had happened to it.  
  
Hawkeye sat on Colonel Potter's desk, jumping up at every noise to look out the only semi-transparent plastic windows.  
  
"I can't believe we sent them out there alone."  
  
"Calm down, Pierce. You know we haven't been getting any phone calls. How do you know they haven't gotten there already and just not been able to contact us about it?"  
  
"Yeah," Radar piped up, who had been growing inconspicuous in a corner of the room, "Who knows who's trying to ring us up on the ol' horn, right now. Maybe the war's over and we just don't all know it yet."  
  
B.J. swung the door open and walked in, unannounced. All three pairs of eyes swiveled and focused in on him, and then slowly looked away, an air of disappointment filling the room. "Sorry, guys, just plain old boring me. No news, I guess?" he unhooked the stethoscope from around his neck and held it clenched in his hand, squeezing it therapeutically.  
  
The Pooka spoke up before anyone could stop him, "Yeah, the Cam'rilla called, they said to tell you that from now on there's a ban on listening for heartbeats, and to order you to turn in your stethoscope when you got off your shift."  
  
Colonel Potter shook his head, Hawkeye snickered wanly, and B.J. tossed the instrument at Radar. "They're welcome to it."  
  
Radar skillfully dodged out the way of the flying medical instrument as B.J. turned to Hawkeye and continued, "He finally asleep?"  
  
"Yeah, poor kid. I feel bad for him, Beej. Did you see the way he looked playing football today?"  
  
"Did I SEE him? I think if you felt much worse for him, he'd be playing professional."  
  
"That's not what I mean. Sure, the kid's got form, great form, but he's starved for company! Did you see the look on his face? I don't want to even guess how long it's been since he's been around another person."  
  
"Another living person, you mean..." Radar whispered, "About 1946?" he ventured a guess, shaking his head.  
  
"Exactly!" Hawkeye pointed at Radar, "He's been penned up by those vampires so long, he doesn't know what's what."  
  
"Maybe we could talk to the boy," Colonel Potter suggested, "You know, talk to him, get him to work on our side instead of theirs."  
  
"Our side, their side..." B.J. commented, aside, "This is beginning to sound like a war."  
  
"That's what I was thinking, Colonel. Something tells me that without their little servant to order around, they won't be quite as demanding."  
  
The door swung open again, and the same process of expectation and disappointment ran through the room as a newly cleaned and pressed Sidney Freedman walked into the office.  
  
"Phew," he waved a hand in the air, "The shower still smells like grapes. Or some unreasonable facsimile thereof. Any news?"  
  
Radar opened his mouth, but Colonel Potter lifted a finger up into the air and cut him off with a curt, "No."  
  
Radar pouted slightly and leaned down to lift the dropped stethoscope by the rubber tube and fiddle with it as Hawkeye continued to speak.  
  
"We're thinking if we can talk Sparky into helping us out, we can get around these creeps through their own channels."  
  
"Those who live by the stake, die by the stake, you mean?"  
  
"Yeah, something like that."  
  
"It couldn't work, couldn't ever," Radar mumbled.  
  
Hawkeye threw his hands up into the air, "I knew I could count on you, Radar, our own little ray of sunshine."  
  
Radar wiggled his nose and flared his nostrils in a particularly ovine expression, and pushed his glasses up on his face, "I'm serious, guys. Once my Uncle Ed got a hold of some corpse-blood, and he liked it so much he couldn't hardly kick the habit. It's addictive-- but not even like cigarettes or nothin'. Like magic. It makes people like some kind of magic slaves, gives 'em some super powers like the corpses have, but makes 'em fall in love with the corpse they get it from. If Sparky's into the Colonel's blood, there won't be any getting him to help us against 'im."  
  
Colonel Potter listened, the earnestness in his Corporal's voice separating the important information from the trim of lies. He drummed his fingers on the table. "You think that's what he keeps in that bag of his?"  
  
"I'd say blood, almost certainly, Colonel," Sidney began. When he caught the odd looks he was getting for having this particular bit of knowledge. "Let's just say I spent more of the movie watching the vampires in the audience than the vampires on the screen," he explained. "The Colonel's wife seemed even more oblivious than Henry. But the Colonel himself..." he trailed off.  
  
"Yeah?" Hawkeye prodded, sitting down.  
  
"Well, let's just say that I'd love to get him on my couch for a session or two."  
  
B.J. lifted an eyebrow, "First Sparky, and now Sid. Everybody loves this guy."  
  
Radar snorted gleefully at the joke before stifling it.  
  
"No, seriously," Sidney continued. "Symptoms of paranoia, obsessive- compulsive. Brought on by, as far as I can tell, acute hypochondria."  
  
Hawkeye's face split into a smile. "And what a cute little hypochondria it is," he quipped, a devilish plan beginning to spin in his head and alleviating enough gloom and worry to let out a little levity.  
  
Radar, piqued by the sudden spark of creative energy from Hawkeye, sat up straighter and tilted his head back curiously, "Hypochondia, sir? I think my dog had that, once."  
  
"An intense fear of getting sick, Radar. Accompanied by the ability to convince yourself that you actually HAVE gotten sick. Most commonly found among the educated, especially doctors."  
  
"And what's all this got to do with that blessed suitcase, Freedman?" Potter demanded.  
  
Sidney's eyes widened and he opened his hands in a gesture of simplicity. "Placebos, sir."  
  
"Placebos?" B.J. asked.  
  
"Placebos!" Hawkeye howled, laughing.  
  
"Placebos," Sidney explained, "If he can convince himself he's gotten sick, he can also convince himself he's getting better. I don't know how well vampires respond to taking sugar pills, so I'm guessing that that briefcase is full of their equivalent: syringes full of a liquid which I can only guess is blood. I saw him take three syringefuls during the course of the movie alone."  
  
Hawkeye stood up, beaming from every pore in that peculiar manner that only Hawkeye Pierce can pull off, that manner which can stun the vampire and awe the pooka and even cause the hunter to think twice.  
  
"My friends, what we have here is a very crafty Malkavian. He KNOWS he's gone nuts, and takes every precaution not to let it get out of hand. But if I didn't have a plan to get under that skin of his, my name wouldn't be Hawkeye Pierce." He smirked, and turned to Colonel Potter, holding out a hand to shake his.  
  
"Hello there. Hawkeye Pierce, at your service."  
  
~ 


	70. Chapter 81: Oh, The Humanity!

Henry awoke that night not in a fit, but in a slow progress of the sleep (death?) leaving his body, the blood stirring him to rise and the beast growling at him from a dark, unused corner of his being. But as his eyes open and he slowly became more and more aware, the vampiric feelings faded into the background, even the hunger, which he'd seen grow so very much worse, didn't seem that bad, tonight. Having stopped being amazed at his body's newfound agility, he didn't marvel at the ease with which he opened the coffin's lid and leapt outside, but instead took a second to shake his head in awe at the fact that he'd gotten so very used to this new state of being already.  
  
He was no longer startled to think of himself spending the day in a coffin. The ready supply of blood to be taken here without hurting anyone had even dulled that blow to the point where it seemed nearly acceptable.  
  
After all... there are worse things than drinking human blood. Right?  
  
Henry watched the very words pass through his thoughts like an astonished spectator at a parade that turned out to be not quite what he was expecting.  
  
Shaking his head and trying not to think about it, he went to the lightswitch and turned on the single lightbulb that lit up the VIP tent. A vague hint of garlic still pervading the air sparked his ire along with his memories of the frantic cleaning of last night.  
  
"Boy, if I ever see that Frank Burns--" he muttered to himself, then cut himself off, coming to the door and looking out into the night.  
  
He frowned and shut the door again, wondering where the other two were. Were they up already? He didn't remember hearing any motion in the tent since he woke up. Maybe he overslept? It didn't look THAT much past dusk. In fact, the still slightly grey aura in the western sky had unnerved him a bit as he'd looked at it, and his hand went to his face to rub his cheek in a thoughtful gesture as he inwardly cringed at the memory of the intense pain of daylight.  
  
Feeling awkward, he wandered in circles around the other two coffins in the tent.  
  
'Henry,' he told himself, 'Quit with the vulture act and just look already.'  
  
Smirking, he obeyed his won command and leaned down, lifting up the lid of the first of the other two coffins. It was empty.  
  
Henry nodded. Well... the others must be up already. He headed towards the door to head out and see what was what tonight, but, as an afterthought, returned to the spot and lifted the other coffin lid.  
  
Had blushing come with littler effort on Henry's part, he would have done so. "Oh, I'm-- sorry, I'll-- sorry." He stammered before finally letting the coffin lid shut again over the seneschal and his wife, who were cuddled together tightly, fully clothed, and holding each other in their cold, dead arms.  
  
Neither of them showed any signs of waking. Henry wandered out of the tent, a bit dazed, but, well, what else was new, these nights?  
  
~ 


	71. Chapter 82: A Huddle And A Play

A huddled mass of backs were clustered around the side of the swamp, the three heads hidden as they all strove to peer in through the mesh fabric. Henry, his curiosity roused, approached the bundle of humanity from behind, now standing on tiptoe to try to see over them, now leaning down to try to see between their shoulders. Finally, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, he smiled and said, "Yo, fellas."  
  
"SSSshhhh!!" was the reply from Hawkeye Pierce, who bobbed up from the mass long enough to grab Henry's shoulder and pull him down into the huddle, shifting aside to make room for him. Henry tried to inquire further but was cut off by A gesturing finger from Hawkeye which pointed Henry's attention into the scarcely lit interior of the swamp.  
  
Frank was missing, probably nursing his wounds somewhere, or, rather, having Major Houlihan do so. A quick glance to his right showed that B.J. Hunnicutt was one of the other people involved in the spectatorship, the other being Doctor Sidney Freedman. Looking back inside revealed two individuals in the tent, one taking up the visiting physician's bunk in an obvious state of disarray, the other, now looking back towards the window at the noise, recognizable as the company clerk, the dim light shining off his specs and giving the impression of the presence of a wild animal in the tent.  
  
Henry furrowed his brows in a silent question to Hawkeye, but Hawkeye gestured emphatically back to the scene, which Henry duly leant there and watched.  
  
He saw Radar creeping through the tent with an eerie stealth, stepping over piles of dirty socks and scraps of paper which had once held information necessary for the survival of an afternoon and currently lay discarded on the floor. He backed sneakily around the stove, then made a slow crawl toward the bed in which Sparky slept, all unsuspecting of the mischief being played upon him.  
  
Coming upon the cot and his longtime vocal comrade, Radar smiled and slipped down to his knees, reaching down under his shirt and pulling out a football whose bulk had been disguised in the shadows of the tent. Holding his breath, he reached up and gripped the top corner of the briefcase which Sparky held just as Radar held Qotenmatch in his sleep.  
  
With a deft pull, he began to loosen the briefcase bit by bit from the ghoul's grasp. Sparky's breath was cold with the Wyrm taint, but Radar felt way too much like the main character in a spy thriller to care.  
  
As the briefcase came looser and looser, Sparky began to shift in his light sleep, and to clench and unclench his arms, looking for his accustomed grip on the leather case. Taking advantage of the moment, Radar snatched away the case, and gently placed that day's football, infused with the excitement of the day, into the waiting embrace. Placated, Sparky grunted a bit and went back to sleep while Radar made good his escape from the Swamp, spoils in hand.  
  
The crowd stood up, and Henry, following their cue, stood up after them.  
  
Radar emerged from the swamp, shining with excitement, and saluted exaggeratedly with his off-hand. "Mission accomplished, sir!" he whispered, holding out the parcel to Hawekeye with a proud look toward Henry.  
  
Henry caught the Pooka's glance and smiled in return. "Well, that's all very well and good, Radar, but would you please tell me what the heck is going on around here?" He asked politely, a wide, goofy grin spreading over his face.  
  
Hawkeye took the briefcase and looked back to Henry, as if thinking for a moment. But it was only for a moment. He caught the infection of Henry's grin, and, grinning back, clapped his former commanding officer on the shoulder, "Sure, Colonel, come on, we'll clue you in."  
  
~ 


	72. Chapter 83: A Fumble and the Ball Threa...

Even after the physical exertion of the day's fun, even after spending almost twenty-four hours awake, Sparky only needed a few good hours of sleep to awake refreshed. He shifted in bed and tried to call back the dream he'd been having; he called to the tribal women, dark skin marked in darker tattoos in queer patterns over their bare undulating skin as they danced their wild savage dances, and squeezed the football in his arms, trying to hold the sight there as the vampiric blood in his system roused his wakefulness on the one hand and his passion on the other.  
  
He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to shake off his waking, to slip back into the soft snuggle of the rough army blankets. Finally, from some door, open, somewhere, a cold night breeze reached his bed and he shot up, the football dropping to the floor with a dull thud.  
  
"Yes, ma'am, I'm up," he yelped as his eyes shot open. But, looking around, he didn't see the face of his master's Toreador wife which he'd normally begun to associate with such cool drafts.  
  
There was nobody in the tent.  
  
His still-waking mind took a few moments to register the sight of the football rolling around on the floor, and the absence of a certain item of immense importance missing from his bedside. But when it did, it sent a chill much more fierce than any a cold Korean evening or the icy aura of an ancient vampire could have to offer running in terror through Sparky's innermost marrow.  
  
Beginning to breathe hard, his heart beginning to race, he squeezed his eyes shut, hoping that he was still dreaming, that he'd open his eyes and either return to being king of the wild amazon women or, at the very least, a ghoul who was NOT about to be tortured and killed by his regnant.  
  
"Oh, Christ, oh, Christ..." he mumbled hectically to himself when he opened his eyes and found the world very much as he had left in a few seconds previously. He leapt up, then fell to the ground, looking under the cot. Not there. In frustration he lifted the side of the cot and hurled it on its side to get a better look. Still not there. He kicked the cot into a corner of the tent. Still not there. He turned his anxious rage toward the rest of the tent.  
  
Outside, Radar, hurrying by with his arms loaded up with drinks, turned his head to quickly survey the swamp, from which a more and more hasty clattering sound could be heard. He hurried himself up and soon was at the entryway to that plywood and scrap-metal construction off of post-op that served as a diagnostic center during the surgery hour and alternate poker room to the Swamp during the happy hour. Hawkeye and Colonel Potter were standing outside the door, waiting for him.  
  
Radar looked back over his shoulder toward the swamp, shuffling his burden around in such a non-attentive matter that it seemed that all the various bottled, cups, and ices would go clattering to the ground, but he managed to put a dink into each of the others' hands as he whispered, "I think he might be awake," and scuttled inside.  
  
"Good, thanks, Radar..." Hawkeye called quietly after him, then looked down at the drink in his hand. Potter looked down at his, and sighed. They switched drinks.  
  
"Look, Pierce, I haven't known you all that long, but I think you're a pretty trustworthy young man. So if you say that Henry Blake isn't in league with those other three, I'm inclined to believe you. But I want you to think, and I want you to think hard: now that Blake's... one of them... would he be inclined to be... /one of them/?"  
  
"I know you're concerned, Colonel. But our Henry... he's never been one of 'them,' whoever the 'them' of the day might have been. He's never been anything other than one of a kind."  
  
Potter nodded gravely, and lifted the drink, Hawkeye mirroring his action. Potter's forehead rippled in a frank expression. "I have a feeling I'm going to need this."  
  
A short gesture of toasting from the two, and Hawkeye smiled, "To life, and all the insanity thereof."  
  
~ 


	73. Chapter 84: Rizzo Never Thought Father ...

"Hey! Hey you! Under there!"  
  
Rizzo grunted vaguely as he awoke from his alcohol-induced stupor under the jeep that was slowly drizzling oil down his cheek. Besides this tickle, the other sensations that slowly crept into his mind were those of a toe of a shoe being roughly dug into the side of his leg, and that of the harshly whispered words being tossed down at him from above the jeep.  
  
"Hey you, wake up!"  
  
The shoe toe came harder this time, and Rizzo grunted again as he pulled himself, slightly blackfaced, out from under the "vee-hickle."  
  
"Look, sorry to bother you, but have you seen a-- a--" Aparky wildly gesticulated the approximate size of the briefcase, "with a-- a--" he gripped the air as if grabbing the lost item's handle, "And some--" he lifted up a hand with fingers poised about three inches apart to indicate the size of the needles inside.  
  
Rizzo squeezed his eyes shut, and then peered back up at the overly nervous ghoul.  
  
Sparky grew more agitated still. "Cauuse I was--" he pantomimed throwing a football, "And then I musta--" he spread his arms wide and looked around the motor pool, which had served as one of the endzones for the game, "Cause I can't--" at this point, he looked about ready to cry.  
  
Rizzo slowly shook his head. "Sorruh, son," came the burbling reply from his parched throat. "I ain't seen nothin' like this, with a, and some."  
  
Rizzo turned his head aside as the distressed demi-Malk groaned and hurried off elsewhere to look. As he patted around in his pockets for his half- smoked cigar from last night, he chuckled. "Not to say I seen much of ANYTHING but 'de insides o' my eyelids today!"  
  
Situating the grungy cigar in its usual corner of his mouth, he used the side of the jeep to pull himself to a standing position and took a few seconds to blearily wipe the sand off of his backside before beginning to direct his wobbling steps back towards the O club. Some events in this life are even more predictable than the nightly rising of the kindred.  
  
But Rizzo could not have possibly expected his path to his nightly drunken revelry to be cut off short by the arrival of the camp chaplain, on horseback, with a white bundle draped over the back of the creature.  
  
Father Mulcahy deftly jumped down from the horse's back, and, seeing that Rizzo was the only person there, walked a few more steps with the horse, shouting, "Someone, a litter, please!" with some urgency.  
  
Rizzo stepped back and squinted at the surreal scene as a blur of green- clad men surrounded the rear of the placid horse, gently took its load, and put it on a guerney. In the night the voices of the other men all ran together as they murmured among themselves, but the high voice of the priest stood out among the noises with a certain surety of speech found in most men of the cloth.  
  
"No, he's just been cut, we won't need to bother one of the surgeons."  
  
"Yes, he'll need some blood, we ran into more of-- well, it's been a long trip back, we lost our Jeep."  
  
"Where are the doctors, anyway?"  
  
"Oh," here his voice rose with a certain indignance. "Oh, I /see/."  
  
The corpsmen scurried back off with Klinger in tow towards the operating theater. Mulcahy removed his glasses for a moment, and Rizzo could see his eyes full of righteous anger.  
  
Replacing his glasses on his face, he grabbed the horse's chin, perhaps a bit more roughly than was warranted, for the creature snorted in objection as it followed along, and approached Rizzo. "Park this somewhere, will you?" he requested offhandly, then turned to storm toward the diagnostic ward. "Playing poker at a time like this!"  
  
~ 


	74. Chapter 85: A Pooka Warns Of A Prelude ...

"Playing poker... at a time like this?"  
  
Joles' forehead wrinkled, his eyebrows tilting up in an expression not so much of anger as of severe confusion.  
  
"Well, it's Saturday, Colonel, and, well, there's not much that can stand in the way of long-, um, -standing tradition, hm?" Henry tried to explain, nodding his head down and lifting his cards enthusiastically.  
  
"Yeah," Hawkeye chipped in, "Two for me, please," he tossed two cards into the center of the table. "We've been coming over here every Saturday night to play poker since three years before the war started."  
  
Joles paced halfway around the Gerry rigged poker table, then back to his wife's side. Irene, for her part, was trying not to look too amused with the group of them.  
  
"Did I, or did I not tell them, Darling, that if a reasonable solution couldn't be found to this problem, that their camp would be razed to the ground?"  
  
Irene nodded helpfully, hiding a giggle behind a hand as the game continued behind her slightly confused husband.  
  
"I'll take one," Sidney spoke up in the background.  
  
Joles' eyes widened. "And they're playing cards."  
  
"Look, Colonel, there's nothing I'd like more than to flatten every army camp in Korea and call the whole dreary affair off! But as it stands: it's poker night. And I defy McArthur himself to come down here and stop us!" Hawkeye broke off the tirade and grinned. "Why don't I deal you in, next hand."  
  
Joles began to lift his hands in utter frustration, but his eyes caught Hawkeye's, and for a moment he stopped short. Then he smiled. "You know; you remind me," people began to scoot out of his way as he pulled up a chair and sat by the surgeon, "Of a man I used to know, way back when." His eyes watered slightly, tinting pink with blood as he leaned back and waved a hand in front of his face, "Smell like him, too. What's that fire- water you've got, there?"  
  
"Just some old fashioned gin," Hawkeye held out the glass, "Like a belt?"  
  
Joles held up a hand, "I never touch the stuff anymore." He smiled, almost wistfully. "Yes, it's our good Capital R, all over again. It hurt to have to kill him, too." Joles shook his head at the memory.  
  
"Deal me in."  
  
At that point, Father Mulcahy no less than stormed into the diagnostics lab, wearing a face that made Henry's kindred blood run cold in fear that he'd done something horrible and just couldn't remember what, and that made Radar wonder whether he'd tied together the wrong pair of bootlaces altogether. Even the kine looked mildly startled, and Joles and his wife turned around after their example to look.  
  
"So here you all are--!" Mulcahy started to bellow. That was as far as he got when he realized that the remaining visitors were in the same room. He stopped short.  
  
Colonel Potter stood up, with the intent of asking how the trip had gone and how Klinger was, but Mulcahy's observance of the visiting kindred made him sit back down. If there was anything he didn't need, it was for these two Camarilla goons to catch wind of the M*A*S*H 4077th's attempts at liberation. "Something wrong, Father?" he limited himself to asking.  
  
The chaplain managed to pull a 180 in his apparent emotional state, and began to tuck in his shirt, which had gotten mildly dislodged on his way back to camp. "No, Colonel, nothing at all, I was just looking for you, and, for you, and," he tilted his head toward Irene, "For you, miss, actually. And, well," he smiled and repeated more pleasantly, "Here you all are." Here he could show these layabouts how to get things done when dealing with these monsters.  
  
"Yes, Padre, here we are. What was it you needed to tell us?" Colonel Potter nodded gently.  
  
"Well, sir, we've got a new patient just got in. No surgery necessary," he quickly added when Potter and B.J. both started to get up. "The nurses are taking good care of him, just so you'll know to go by and see him when you've got time in your... busy schedule." He looked down significantly at the cluttered poker table.  
  
"Father--" Potter tried to cut in.  
  
"No, Colonel, it's quite all right, no explanations necessary."  
  
As the exchange was going on between the two, Irene stepped quietly behind the Father and put her hand on his shoulder. He startled slightly and turned to watch her with a wary eye.  
  
"You needed to tell me something, too, Father?" she asked gently.  
  
"Oh, oh, yes, um, your friend... the... other one? Megan, I believe her name was? She asked me to come find you; she needs to speak with you."  
  
Joles perked up at that statement. "Meg? That lazy creature, where's she been hiding? Bring here here at once, I've got a thing or two to say to her."  
  
Mulcahy cleared his throat embarrassedly, "Colonel, perhaps it's best to leave this to Irene, for now. I believe it entails--" he looked from side to side, a slight blush coming over him, "Ladies' problems."  
  
The two Kindred froze for a moment, then looked at one another. Irene burst out into giggles, and Joles stood up, "What in Lucifer's name are you talking about, Father?" he began to demand, but Irene coaxed him into sitting back down.  
  
"Ladies' problems, darling, I think I'd better go see what's the matter."  
  
Joles rolled his eyes. "If you must. But tell that... 'lady' that I'll have to have a word with her tonight."  
  
Joles turned back to the table and picked up the first of the cards that Sidney was dealing. "Ladies' problems." He muttered to himself.  
  
"No!" Radar, his tongue finally becoming untied as he stared at Father Mulcahy in shock, fully aware of the Hunter's intent. All heads swiveled toward the Pooka.  
  
"I mean, you can't go help with those kinds of things... Major Houlihan deals with all the, uh, ladies' problems here! You're our guest, you should stay here! And, um, play cards with us!"  
  
Hawkeye looked up at Radar, who was standing, for emphasis, on top of one of the poker chairs, which was wobbling even under his slight weight. "Radar, I'm not sure how experienced Hot Lips is in the area of vampiric gynecology." He paused slightly, then grinned, "Though if they'd offered THAT course in med school, I doubt I would have missed so much class."  
  
Irene didn't blush, pale as she was, but she did look away in a sort of bashful gesture as she went to follow the priest outside. He held the door open for her and looked back at Radar with a stern look.  
  
"Well, what better chance for her to learn some--" Radar's voice wavered off as the door shut behind the two leaving the tent. The cards on the table in front of him went untouched for the entire hand as he stared in terror at the door.  
  
"The game is five-card stud, threes and one-eyed jacks wild." Sidney began.  
  
~ 


	75. Chapter 86: I Have Seen The Moment Of M...

Outside the operating theater, the night was restful and the air was still and chilly, sitting on the ground like a hen nesting an egg. The silence unnerved the hunter as he, in a true gentlemanly fashion that seemed incongruous with his intent, held the door open for the lovely black-haired Toreador to pass in front of him. The various horizons holding their breath for the moment allowed the Father to notice, for the first time since the visitors first arrived, the cool breeze that seemed to emanate from the woman's body. He shivered profoundly. The door swinging to a close behind him made him jump a few inches while he tried to shake off the chills the Seneschal's wife had given him.  
  
She turned back at the noise and tilted her head with a pleasant smile that seemed too warm to belong to such a cold 'corpse,' as Radar had seemed to take to calling them. The term seemed appropriate, somehow, to the Father. Corpses, and souls, souls too, only animate by a force that defied nature, God, and all that was right.  
  
"Quo vadis, Pater." The beautiful monster spoke.  
  
Collecting himself, he nodded, "Yes. Well, right this way," he extended an arm toward the VIP tent. She turned to walk slowly in that direction, obviously hoping for him to catch up and walk at her side, but he lingered, his eyes scanning the edge of the compound where a few men lingered at the mouth of the Officer's Club, seeming neither to want to enter nor exit, but to hang in a fluxuant state and create not so much a clamor as a soft shuffling of feet and murmuring of voices that made the quiet of the night that much more unbearable.  
  
'Go in, or come out. Go in, or come out.' The words ran over and over in his mind, not in the voices of the angels, no, but his own inner voice, directed first towards those lingering on the threshold of the O- club, and second towards himself, lingering on the threshold of his second... murder? No, not murder. Restoration. All things can be restored to their proper place, through the grace of God. Go in, or come out, Father Mulcahy. Do this thing, or don't do it. Trembling on the edge is not the way of a God-fearing man.  
  
"My husband," the monster was saying, as she paused to wait for the priest to come to her side, "Isn't the monster he seems to be, these nights." She reached to take his arm, and, when he pulled away, frightened a bit at the words the vampire seemed to pull straight out of his mind, she simply clutched her hands in front of herself in a ladylike manner.  
  
"He's really a very good man. There IS such a thing, Father, even among us."  
  
Mulcahy crossed his arms across his chest in an awkward gesture, tucking his hands into the crooks of his elbows to keep them from reaching for the flaming sword. One of the tidal men laughed, a clear sound in the dark compound. "And you? Are you a--"  
  
"A good woman?" she finished, reminding him for a second time so far in the trip across the compound of Radar, and the Pooka's face came into mind, the image of the young lad standing on the rickety poker-chair, much distraught and knowing... knowing everything.  
  
"I try to be, Father," she finished meekly. "I try in all I do." She paused, taking in his troubled expression, "You're right to be wary. The path is hard, and it's easy to fall. But you, of all people, should understand that."  
  
Father Mulcahy lifted his chin and nodded vaguely. "Yes. I understand. We all do what we must." The clacking sound of the door of the Officer's Club closing ran to the hunter's ears, and as he opened the door of the VIP tent, he looked over to see whether the tidal men had finally gone in, or come out.  
  
In.  
  
The door closed behind the two, priest and monster, hunter and prey. The Seneschal's wife lifted a lithe arm to turn on the light and display to the chaplain what she'd known since entering: that they were alone. She turned around, for the first time a small frown gracing the warm and tender countenance of the sublimely beautiful face.  
  
"Father? Where's Meg?"  
  
She faced him, and that gorgeous face contorted into a monstrous countenance, red lines of hellish flame running up her cheek and down her neck, marking her with the mark of the beast, the upturned crescent, the cross of sanctity scattered with the taint of foulness. The priest's adrenaline surged as his quarry stood before him, and as its eyes began to glow a sulfur yellow; its body to push out striking wisps of ice-cold black smoke. "You'll find her soon," he intoned quietly.  
  
Irene, for her part, stepped back a bit, unnerved by the priest's sudden manner toward her. She tilted her head down and stared; the briefest of instants later, she lifted her hand halfway to her eyes, the glorious aspect of his aura having come into focus. Had she still been breathing, it would have taken her breath away. The opaque colors that swathed the hunter were white and iridescent, and flickered like flames on a chalice of unicorn's blood, pearly and suffused in holy power. Her mouth fell open and she was nearly thrown into a trance by the beauty of the sight that made even her seem a toad by comparison.  
  
Nearly. Through sheer force of will she continued to stare into the depths of the hunter's soul, and her hand, which had nearly come to her eyes in an effort to block out the blinding light of his aura, now fell to her pale seashell-colored lips as the full truth of his statement was laid open to her.  
  
To Mulcahy, a short gasp was audible, and the monstrous visage faded into the mundane reality as shock racked his system when the monster before him slowly pronounced: "You've killed her."  
  
Not sure about how the vampire managed to figure the fact out so quickly, Mulcahy's spirit panicked, and, before he was quite ready, he raised his hand to grip the sword he felt forming there in the charged atmosphere.  
  
Pulling her eyes back into focus, and leaving the beautiful view of the bright aura behind, Irene's beast shuddered mightily within her soul at the sight of the fiery blade swirling into existence in the hunter's grip: Irene lifted her hand in a prohibitive gesture and emitted a swift, sweet monosyllable, which hung in the air like the ringing of a glass bell:  
  
"STOP!"  
  
Mulcahy stopped. Oh, /how/ did he stop. The blade, poised to strike, stopped still and momently flickered out of existence. If she had, at that moment, asked him to leave the priesthood and run away with her for a wild weekend adventure in hedonistic pleasures of the flesh, he would have readily done that, too.  
  
~ 


	76. Chapter 87: Deal Me Out

You cold cut the tension in the makeshift poker room with a scalpel. The two remaining kindred stared each other dead on, so to speak. The Seneschal narrowed his eyes. The fledgling Brujah didn't flinch.  
  
"I think you're bluffing," the one-time Lieutenant Colonel Henry Blake pronounced, slowly and seriously, beginning to smile.  
  
"Think what you want; are you in or out?" Joles smiled back, not moving elsewise.  
  
Hawkeye coughed to break the silence, then, leaning over conspiratorially toward his former CO, murmured in a mock-whisper meant to be loud enough for all to overhear, "I think you're right, Henry. Look at how pale he is. Looks worse than you did when you sat on that hot appendix for two weeks." He popped a pretzel into his mouth for punctuation and leaned back, looking to B.J. for confirmation.  
  
The cards in Joles' hand blurred from his vision, and his heart, so meticulously kept in action, nearly stopped beating. After spending all day in close contact with his (literally) frigid wife, and not having had his usual facilities this morning in which to properly bring his temperature up to normal, he had had some difficulty feeling himself this morning, but he'd been sure that he was alright before he left the tent. 98.60 degrees, exactly (he'd stopped using a thermometer - he'd gotten to the point of being able to tell discrepancies from normal to the 100th of a degree), one heartbeat every second. Why this accusation of pallor, all of a sudden? He should have the normal, healthy glow he usually had. He concentrated for a moment on counting his pulse, his hands slipping down to rest on the table and giving him an opportunity to surreptitiously touch his wrist, and on NOT looking around to try to find a mirror. If he looked in the mirror, they'd be there, as they always were, mocking him, infesting his head like so many maggots in rotting meat.  
  
B.J. leaned forward, a look of concern spreading over his face. "Yeah, I see. Look at how his hand's shaking."  
  
Joles nearly dropped the set of cards he was holding. As it was, he let go of them with one hand, holding them in his right while his left moved to the edge of the table, his fingers resting on the edge as he stared down at them, his keen eyes zeroing in on the motion in the limb down to the level of the nanometer, the swift quiverings caused by his forced heart rate, which, he noted with terror, was rising.  
  
"Quit that, you guys, I'm a doctor, myself, you know. Aren't we here to play cards?" Joles spoke somewhat shakily, but managed to keep a grip of himself. After all, he was just imagining the dilapidated tremble of his hand, he was simply counting his heart rate wrong, he was just distracted, he wasn't thinking clearly. Right?  
  
Of course, right. Or was it right? His left hand really began to quake now, but he gripped it in a fist, yearningly looking to his left only to see that his supreme comfort in unlife, his beautiful wife, was not there, as was her wont, to take his hand in hers and to still it. Oh, god, what if he were really getting ill? What if he were going to meet final death right there in that tent, and never see her again? What if his body was breaking down completely?  
  
"Colonel?" Sidney chimed in, the calm, cool voice of the psychologist cutting through the thronging thoughts that had begun to rush upon the Seneschal. "Are you sweating?"  
  
Joles couldn't take it anymore. Setting his cards distractedly down on the table, face up (a flush - in the background of all the panic that was suffusing the area, Henry subtly folded), he reached into the pocket into which he had guiltily secreted away his wife's compact mirror. He opened it and lifted it close to his forehead to examine.  
  
'Look who's here!'  
  
'Ha! What's that? Oh, no, that's supposed to be like that, look at the--'  
  
'Doesn't it look a little red to you?'  
  
'Too close! Too close!'  
  
'Too---' the voices snapped closed with the compact. Joles struggled to regulate his breathing and heart rate, and by the time the compact was back in his pocket, droplets of blood-sweat had really begun to form on his brow.  
  
"No. Of course not," he replied, wide-eyed, panting and trembling in fits.  
  
"Colonel? Are you okay, sir?" Radar asked quietly from across the table.  
  
"I think the Colonel could use that drink, now, Radar."  
  
Radar looked up, and nodded briefly, leaping over the table and scuttling out the door.  
  
~ 


	77. Chapter 88: I Have Seen The Eternal Foo...

When she was fairly certain that she wasn't about to meet final death at the hands of a ruddy-blond haired man who she'd assumed, up until a few moments previously, was simply an army priest a little antsy about sharing his world with the kindred, Irene took a seat on the edge of the VIP cot and let the charged emotional frenzy of the space between them cool down and settle into its new configuration.  
  
She thought over the sight of his aura, and had to give herself a mental slap on the wrist for her desire to indulge in viewing it again. It wasn't as if her husband was sitting by her side to shake her awake if anything untoward should happen. Alone, and left to her own devices, she could stare at the pearl-fire wisps of ether all night long; although she was fairly certain that, in common parlance, she had him by the throat, she wasn't sure how long the effect would last, and she couldn't risk being in a prone state of dazed reverie when the man of God shook off her spell and continued his... jihad. No, no time for Irene's inner patron of all things good and beautiful to come out; time was of the essence, and if there was one thing about which Father Mulcahy had been absolutely correct, it was that, from time to time, vampires needed to get nasty if they're going to survive.  
  
By the throat, yes, that's how the vampire held him, or by the heart, perhaps. It was rather hard to tell, as Mulcahy's heart had leapt up into his throat when he realized that he was about to kill the most sublime creature to ever tread the face of the planet.  
  
Creature? No. No creature. Goddess. The God he served, just now benevolent and righteous, faded, obscure, severe and heartless before this idol of immortal femininity, flesh, and blood. The chaplain was in love, completely and utterly bewitched.  
  
"Father..." Irene began, slowly.  
  
Mulcahy lowered his head in supplication, and, though he could only scarcely force himself to speak unbidden, the appellation and its implication that he would ever worship anything other than this Love itself grated on him, "John, please, dear miss, John," he asked, mild as a dove.  
  
The surprise lifted Irene's chin in notice. This man's will was indeed strong. But she didn't let it show through, a warm and somewhat wild expression coming over her face. You catch more flies with honey.  
  
"Yes, if you wish, then, John. Come sit by me, and tell me what's become of our Scourge, please."  
  
Without a second thought he came to her side and sat, looking down at his feet momentarily before his eyes were drawn back up to the radiant being next to him. He wanted to touch her. But he didn't dare. Not until she told him to. Until that, he watched her with yearning, and the story of the previous night's encounter came flowing from his lips, the words coming forth of their own accord to please his newfound love.  
  
Irene listened. Within a few moments she got the gist of what he was going to say, but she didn't stop him from going on at length about the conversation and decapitation that the priest was reciting with no obvious notion of what he was saying, but with a lust burning in the way he looked at her which, granted, she'd seen in a good number of individuals, but which seemed incongruous in this man's features. Unable to help herself, sure of her self-control, she let the white flames reappear in their swarths around him, and soon found herself gazing as intently at him as he was of her.  
  
So intently was she enjoying the sight of his aura that she hardly noticed when the story was done. She stared into his face, and he into hers, each entranced by the other, one by means of the Toreador's charm, the other by means of Toreador's curse, the curse leaving her unable to move, the charm making him move only slowly. He inched closer, and, finding no resistance, and, moreover, a quite fond gaze in his vampiric lover's eyes, pushed his awkward virginal lips to her quite experienced ones and held there.  
  
That woke her. She shut her eyes briefly, letting the patterns of god-fire leech out of her retinas, then pulled back and opened them. She cleared her throat significantly at him and gave him a look of severity. He shrunk back away from her.  
  
"I'm-- I'm sorry..." he mumbled, confused at her mixed messages. He wasn't very experienced at love-affairs, after all. But if she would just tell him what she wanted him to do, anything at all, and he would do it. Anything.  
  
"No, no, don't apologize, it's my fault," she sighed, and, in the manner of a little girl on the playground, wiped her mouth off on her shirtsleeve as she went deep into thought. Then, looking up, she smiled, causing a responding smile to appear on the dazzled hunter's face.  
  
"Look, Father," she insistently called him by his given title, "I know you might feel like... that... now, but... well, you won't, always, and you don't want to do anything that you'll regret for the rest of your life. Okay? Besides which, you're forgetting: I'm a happily married woman." She giggled briefly, then frowned a bit at the dashed look he was giving her.  
  
"I know it doesn't make much sense now, but it will, later, when all of this will go away," she frowned more deeply. "And I'm explaining it now because you might be too angry with me later to want to speak to me and let me explain myself. So I just want to say that I'm terribly sorry for what I'm going to have to do to you."  
  
Mulcahy's forehead wrinkled in consternation and he stood up, his spirit trying to pull itself from her power, but failing miserably and falling ever deeper in love with her. How honest she was, how virtuous.  
  
"Sit down, please."  
  
He did so.  
  
"Thank you. I can't have you deciding to hurt my husband, myself, and your former commander when I go and turn my back on you for a moment. I'm afraid I'll have to take more permanent measures. Please have it in your heart to forgive me one day. I know you're just trying to be a good man, and your good opinion would mean a lot to me."  
  
He lifted a hand, trembling in sheer admiration, and, with the air of a worshipper meekly touching the lovely ankle of the Goddess Venus, felt a lock of her hair. "Could I ever have otherwise than a good opinion of you?" he whispered, the notion of this concept beyond him at the moment.  
  
She cleared her throat and pulled back her hair from his touch, "Yes, I think it's possible, dear," she stated bluntly, "But not for a while, at least."  
  
As if in explanation of her last statement, and in reply to the questioning expression the doting hunter gave her, she let her fangs grow into razor-sharp implements, thin and long, and, bracing herself, bit down on the heel of the palm of her hand.  
  
She told her thrall to drink, and held her palm, drizzling the vile, red, angry liquid, to his mouth. He drank, and the potent excitement of the foul blood roused his senses, made his desire for her and her lifeblood all but overwhelming. She held him back with the force of her arm, and he seemed to grow attached to the limb, a sensual parasite clinging to the wound and drinking from it until she willed it to close.  
  
Mulcahy broke away when he found no more of the vital liquid forthcoming. Her blood raged in his veins and made him feel more alive than ever. He watched her, wide-eyed as he imagined the sheer power she held within her.  
  
"Good," she uttered tentatively, standing up. "Now, wipe your face, we've got to go see about you with my husband."  
  
~ 


	78. Chapter 89: And, In Short,

Radar leaned up and peered through the smoggy windows separating the post- op ward from the diog lab. Shrinking back, he turned his body to stand over the counterspace he'd cleared off for his work, his neck still craned around to listen for anyone about to walk in from the other room.  
  
Poking his tongue out from a mischievous corner of his mouth, he picked at a scab on his wrist from yesternight's tumble in the cave. "I really gotta get back to that cave sometime," Radar mumbled to himself as he scooped up a little droplet of blood that welled up from the scab on the end of a tongue depressor, "I always liked stalagmites when I was a kid. They kind of reminded me of my mom's legs when she'd been sitting playing bridge too long with Mrs. Callahan and her two daughters. Betty would always kick her sister under the table, one time for however many cards trumped she had, and it was always kind of fun to see what color the bruises would get by the end of the night. My favorite was the dark grey ones."  
  
So Radar spoke to nobody in particular, using the tongue depressor as a makeshift swizzle stick in the short glass of hemoglobin he'd just mixed. One more peek into the next room, and he entered, bearing in the slightly odd drink just as he would a brandy or gin.  
  
"... oh, and the hepatitis... you have no idea how much Hepatitis we see here, Colonel, it's just--" Hawkeye was going on, the Seneschal starting to hunch semi-fetally over the newly dealt cards, a pallor like death hovering over his features.  
  
"Sparky!" Joles finally got out, calling over his shoulder, then, gritting his teeth, mumbled, "Where is that damned ghoul?"  
  
"On his way, sir," Radar piped as he shoved through the door backward into the room. "Wait for it..."  
  
"Wait for it--?" Joles mouthed confusedly, and Hawkeye held a hand up from across the table, "Just wait. Our Radar's got a radar for ghouls."  
  
"Hey have any of you guys seen a--aaaAAAa! Sir, Colonel sir!" Sparky burst in headlong and then nearly recoiled back out the door before standing anxiously in the presence of his regnant.  
  
Joles stood swiftly, setting the hand of cards down on the tabletop, just barely remembering the necessity of setting them down face-down, a fact for which Henry was infinitely grateful, having had to throw several hands already due to the Seneschal's increasing agitation, and having received a decent hand off the bat, this time. He settled his own cards down, likewise, and sat back, watching the realization of the trouble he was in dawn on Sparky.  
  
Who trembled violently as the Seneschal, obviously in the latter stages of his deranged mind's failings, ordered his medical case to be brought.  
  
"I-- ah-- um-- well-- see--" Sparky began, with all the eloquence of a banana slug.  
  
The worst ran through the Seneschal's mind immediately. Stuck here, in the hellhole of the East, his body refusing to obey his commands, cold decay creeping over him and bacteria eating away his flesh and bearing it away with them down into the fetid slush of the earth. Panic pushed at his lungs and his beast roared to be let loose upon the offending bloodslave, but he spent a moment performing mental calisthenics, running percentages and probabilities and soothing numbers through his disordered thoughts until he had there wherewithal to growl, "YOU... WHAT?"  
  
Radar, his golden Pooka tongue nearly tied by the visage of the vampire who threatened to make Frank Burns look cuddly, thrust the blood- filled cup into the hands of Hawkeye Pierce, and, as Sparky was trying to get something out of his terrified mouth, spoke up.  
  
"Oh, he gave us your case, sir, he said he thought it'd be nice to take your medicine, um, um,"  
  
"Orally," Hawkeye finished. "Shots in the arm can be a shot in the arm, but there's nothing like a good drink, huh?" He passed the glass along the table to B.J.  
  
"From a glass?" Joles hissed, "Do you know how unsanitary that is? This place is crawling with... with... infestations!"  
  
"Nonsense, Colonel, we've got our own autoclave here at the M*A*S*H 4077th germ ranch. Goes from 0 to sterile in 16 seconds." B.J. handed the glass down the line to Sidney, who held it up for the Seneschal's inspection.  
  
Over by the Pooka, Henry grinned and spoke up, "Yeah, can cook a lobster in under 5 minutes, too."  
  
Radar brought a hand to his forehead in an exasperated gesture but giggled anyway.  
  
Joly stared at the cup, nervous bloodsweat breaking out over his face as he felt his body temperature fluctuate wildly in an attempt to modify itself. The rest of the room watched him as he hesitantly took the cup, shut his eyes, steeled himself, and downed it.  
  
While the Malkavian's eyes were shut, Hawkeye silently looked up at Radar. Radar gave him a silent wink in return. Hawkeye smiled and nodded.  
  
Joly took two full deep breaths before his eyes opened. He forced the new blood through his system, stabilizing his vein structure and moving the metallic sediments he was sure were accruing on their north edges back into the flow, as they should be.  
  
"That's... much better." He tentatively spoke, settling the cup upon the table and feeling his chest for his regularized heartbeat. He was comforted. The slightly strange flavor that the blood had held only nagged a bit at the back of his brain. Sparky leaned up against a wall as to not faint with utter relief. He sighed.  
  
And was promptly smacked in the face by the door from the compound as it burst open once more, Irene poking the top half of her body inside.  
  
"Darling? I think we've got a problem."  
  
~ 


	79. Chapter 90: I Was Afraid

"Irene, I really don't need another problem, just right yet," Joles managed to sound both petulant and pleasant as he complained of the somewhat extraordinary night. "Can't it wait until the game's ended?"  
  
"No, I really don't think so. You need to see this..."  
  
Joles lifted his hands in acquiescence. "All right, all right, I'm coming." He turned to the rest of the crowd, "Sorry, fellows, the missus calls. You know how it is," and he resignedly headed out.  
  
The rest of the group looked at one another for a moment, and, in silent consensus, surged up and out of the tent a moment later.  
  
Joles, followed hastily by Sparky, then by a wave of M*A*S*H personnel that poured out and surrounded the scene, came out to find Irene standing, looking rather helplessly at the good Father, who was standing, looking EXTREMELY helplessly at Irene, whom he seemed to hover around like a moonstruck calf.  
  
"What's the problem, dear?" Joles began, expressing the sentiments of the whole crowd.  
  
"Look for yourself."  
  
Joles frowned at the serious of her tone, departing so far from her normal affability that he knew that there was something extraordinary at the root of her concern. He sought out her eyes, and she, catching his look, nodded in urgent confirmation and pointedly directed her gaze at the father.  
  
"Father?" Henry, worried, called out, "You alright?"  
  
Filled with an intense admiration for Irene and all her kin, the priest smiled a beaming smile at the Brujah and nodded, replying in a waveringly mellow voice, "Never better."  
  
"Jesus Christ!" Joles spat out, having 'looked' for himself. "What IS that?!"  
  
"Darling, if I knew, I wouldn't have had to take you away from your poker game," she replied, mildly sardonic.  
  
Joles, duly abashed, lifted up a hand, "All right, Irene, you were right and I was wrong. Admitted."  
  
"Forgiven." She smiled.  
  
"Is... he dangerous?"  
  
"No... not anymore, anyway."  
  
"Any idea how long?"  
  
"A good one: one year and one day."  
  
"Wait a minute, wait a minute," Hawkeye stepped forward, halting the discussion, "Just what is going on here?"  
  
"The father," Joles commented, in his best prognosis-delivery voice, "Has a highly irregular aura, and is likely something... other than human."  
  
Hawkeye leaned forward and stared, his eyebrows knitting together in frustration as he enunciated, "I'd remind the audience that he wouldn't be the only thing that's not quite human around here. What the hell did you do to him?"  
  
Mulcahy moved slowly but with clear decision between Irene and Hawkeye. "Don't you dare speak to her like that," he nearly snapped, and was opening his mouth to continue when Irene cut in.  
  
"Father, stop, come here."  
  
Mulcahy left off his rant, his irritated expression exchanged for one of solicitous care as he returned to his regnant's side with a timid and deferring, "Yes, miss?"  
  
The sight threw Hawkeye's jaw agape, and the jet black hair on the back of his neck stood up a bit in protest as he recognized the mirror image in front of him; that of Sparky sniveling below the seneschal and of the Padre fawning upon his wife.  
  
"Oh, God," he muttered under his breath.  
  
"And that's not the end of it," Irene was continuing, "I have every reason, including the fact that he told me, to believe that he killed Meg."  
  
"How dare you people come in here and do this kind of thing to--!!!" Hawkeye began to rail at the vampires, before the tail end of Irene's statement hit home.  
  
"Wait. What?"  
  
"He did what?" B.J. echoed, equally shocked, his words echoing through the compound.  
  
"My god," Joles uttered. "Took down our... scourge? How-- that--"  
  
Radar cast his eyes down to the ground, long since clear of any foreign dust, ashamed. Then, imperceptibly, his head tilted to one side, the vision of the hunter in the periphery of his sight, and his mouth and eyes all at once grew slightly wide. Half a second later, he was hurtling past Hawkeye and Henry and B.J., careering though the compound and tackling Mulcahy about the waist, bringing the unsuspecting soul to the ground just as Joles, his face having steeled slightly to the necessary task, drew his sidearm with superhuman speed and aimed it towards the air that had been occupied by the hunter's head moments previously.  
  
Joles, surprised by the chimerical prescience, cocked his elbow, the firearm still ready but pointed up to the sky.  
  
"Corporal! Off!" He hollered, treading over decidedly; Radar unfortunately was compelled to obey by the sickly feeling he began to have as the elder Malkavian approached. He scrambled backward and Father Mulcahy was trying to right himself when he saw the pistol's barrel come down to the level of his head. Shifting his feet under him deftly, he was about to reach up and try to grapple the gun away, but his mistress' vice came to him telling him to be still and not to act against her husband. He obeyed, crouching, an abject creature. Radar's chest rose and fell, his warm breath outlining faint clouds in the chilled night air as he looked on, unable to help.  
  
"Hold it! Don't you want to talk about this?" Henry frantically waved a hand; it may have been that the Father had made him rather uncomfortable in the last few nights, but he really wasn't looking forward to seeing the poor man's brains blown across the compound.  
  
"Lesson one concerning life in the Camarilla, Blake: Learn your traditions and follow them to the letter. Lesson two: When you come across a human with a flaming aura who takes down 60-year old Gangrel in his spare time, you don't stop to ask questions."  
  
Irene gave the father a mournful look, but, having once sworn to be by Joly's side through better and worse, and, most importantly, to leave Camarilla business to HIM, she shut her eyes helplessly and raised her hand to her mouth in a sorrowful gesture.  
  
Joles looked down and steadied the barrel. "I'm sorry, Father."  
  
~ 


	80. Chapter 91: Phantom Faces At The Window...

"Joly, Joly, our young imaginary invalid. Still young, after all these years, and still imagining things, as far as I can see. No, no, don't look behind you, look up. Here. Yes, the ethereal one, standing in the locus Phoebi... Ah, yes, Lord Apollo would have been here for you, in all his radiant glory, but he couldn't make it; his shadow, crude, unrefined, and hated by all, is here instead. Yes, up here. It is I."  
  
"Capital R." Joles whispered, staring up into the air at the dark man with the seven o'clock shadow who stood perpendicularly in the air over his head, rather giving him the impression of being stretched out on the ground with his old friend standing at his head and staring down at him.  
  
"I have walked this day down the Rue de Lac, and yet the delectable odor of my dear friend's blood boiling over the fires of his hypochondria was enough to entice this shadow of a deity to his side."  
  
Grantaire leaned over at the waist until he looked Joly in the face, his eyes black with death and his face weathered with tears long shed and gone.  
  
Back in the real world, Joles' hand began to waver in its intent as the droplet of changeling vitae began to take hold. The crowd, breathless in terror at the Seneschal's proclamation, began to stir again at the addition of the words, "Capital R," seemingly addressed to some point in space above his head. Irene knew, of course, about whom he was speaking, but she'd never seen him have a spell like this, before. Concerned as she was, she began to creep forward, hoping to get the gun away from him while he was in such a state of distraction.  
  
Grantaire shook his head disapprovingly, and craned his neck to look down at the priest. "I've never denied myself to be a degenerate, Joly, but, really, a capuchin? Don't explain yourself to me, I would accept what you say far too easily, along with two or three bottles of the fine liquor those two," a darkened, filthy finger pointed lamely in the direction of the swamp rats, "produce. Explain yourself instead to our fearless leader. He waits on the other side, the very right hand of God... or, at least, perhaps, its index finger. He pointed to me, and the chorus of angels laughed and sent me to the great abyss where I belonged. What will the angels do when Enjolras finally gets his chance at you, Joly? How long he's waited, waited... watching. Enjolras the golden-haired, Enjolras the fair, the just, the more-than-just, the one-whose-glory-is-more-than-any- epithet-could-ever-hold... Ah! Look, and just now he might have his chance at you, dear Joly. For, if you will but look down a moment, I believe you'll find that your arm," Joles, staring in shock at the vision, indeed did feel, at this point, a sharp tug on his hand as Irene deftly slipped his sidearm from his grip, "Is on fire. Your sort aren't very fond of flame, if I recall correctly. But don't fret too much over it. You'll get used to the fire, where you'll be after this one has consumed you. And I will be there to keep you company. Two degenerates, alone for all eternity."  
  
Joles, dazed, turned his head and looked down, face contorted with suffering as he beheld his hand, empty of its weapon and unsure of how it happened to attain that state, and the face beyond it, looking up at him with the queerest expression of inquisition possible. "On--" he tried to speak, but his voice stuck in his throat when the reddish-blond head of hair he beheld began to blaze bright blond, the face to shift into one more familiar than that of the recently-met Priest. Enjolras knelt in front of him, the position of humble servitude suddenly becoming the strong and defiant posture of the martyr. The bright blue eyes glanced up at his shadow, and he scowled.  
  
"Grantaire, you're drunk. Go sleep elsewhere."  
  
The dreadful stare returned to Joles, and was such a one of disgust that he was frozen in place.  
  
"Joly, you're--" the words of the one-time leader of an insurrection in the Rue de la Chanvrerie were cut off by the roar of flames that flared up from the body of what could now have either been Enjolras or the Father, Joles couldn't have told under the burning white blaze of the hunter's aura, which flared up and enveloped the hand which had held the gun, and which spread over his body as if his clothes and flesh were doused in kerosene.  
  
And then it seemed that he was upon the barricade, precariously perched as the inferno raged around him. His beast screamed in agony, and grabbed him, and he screamed in the same agony only a shadow of an instant later, and stumbled over mattresses and chairs and bodies of the men he'd once loved. And when the national guardsman lifted him up with one arm and a nearly supernatural strength, he bared his fangs and stuck them in the man's other shoulder, feeding until the world blinked black and dirt.  
  
~ 


	81. Chapter 92,1: DOWNTIME: Father Mulcahy

It was force of habit and the custom of wartime to grant its players something of a reduced need for sleep on frequent occasions that forced Father Mulcahy's eyelids open at his normal hour of 700 hours the next morning. The sheer weight of all that had happened the night before pressed down on them like 50-pound weights, and he had the distinct impression that his head was filled with quicksand. He pushed himself out from between his covers, pulled his bathrobe around his undershirt and shorts, and, hooking his glasses drearily over the neck of said shirt, wandered across the deserted compound, led by the smell of the battery acid locally known as coffee that emanated from the mess tent. Without a word to Igor, who watched him, wide-eyed and silent, unused to getting the cold shoulder from the only person ever up on Sunday mornings besides himself, he downed three mugs' worth of the stuff before even moving away from the dispenser. Downing another two mugs with what passed for breakfast, he took a seventh for the road, and still was only beginning to feel awake when he returned to his tent to change. By that time he hardly remembered the trip across the compound and back. He stared at the empty coffee cup as he fastened his cassock, only just then counting up how many cups he'd just downed, and wondering at the quantity. Why on earth was he so thirsty; what was it he needed? Something-- something energizing, something vital, something--  
  
He sat down on his cot in surprise, his train of thoughts bringing him back to the thrilling, intoxicating rush of adrenaline and testosterone brought on by his... rather unconventional drinking habits the night before. The memory suddenly burst into the forefront of his thoughts, rending aside the fog of his drowsiness.  
  
"Oh, God."  
  
His breathing became hard and rough, he stood up, paced. "Oh, God." He couldn't believe it. Now it all came flooding back, every worldly thought, every pleasure, every disgraceful act he'd engaged in, all at the whim of that... that... succubus! That foul, that revolting, demon-ridden succubus!  
  
Filled with righteous indignation, his pacing and muttering came to a fever pitch, then broke off, all of a sudden, just as abruptly as it had started. Good lord above, he thought to himself, he drank that creature's blood last night.  
  
Slowly, cautiously, without any of the haste of before, he stood, and walked to his footlocker, opening it up with equal deliberation and thought, burrowing to the bottom of the piles of things -- earthly things, he thought to himself with some amount of disgust mingled with impatience. He felt ill as he thought of himself bent to that creature's will, a dehumanized slave of the vampiric blood as Sparky had been pointed out to be. The tip of his finger hit something hard and cold; the standard-issue gun which had been packed at the bottom of his footlocker and not touched since he first moved in. He felt thoroughly determined not to let another such servant be borne to propagate the race of demons on earth.  
  
It was lucky for him that a stroke of logic went though his head before he could put a bullet there. Would he really be having these thoughts about vampires if he were truly enslaved to one?  
  
He frowned in confusion, shut the footlocker again, and sat on it. Maybe it was a trick-- some sort of trick the vampires used to make their slaves think they've retained their capacity for original thought. But if that were so, then it would be them, and not him, who were thinking that, and-- Father Mulcahy's brain was starting to pound with all the implications and possibilities when the matter was cleared up by the voice of the authorities on all such matters, as far as the priest was concerned.  
  
"You will not be chained by blood; neither you nor any of the brothers of your quest."  
  
Yes, those voices. Mulchay hadn't heard them in a few days; he'd begin to understand that he needed to begin to make his own decisions and forge his own way into the task God's set before him. Yet there was something inutterably comforting and stirring to the heart to know that they're there, still, watching, just in case.  
  
Standing for a third time, neither with the agitation of a deep anxiety nor the subdued aspect of one prepared for the demon's grave, but with the self-assertion that befits a priest about to go out and perform his sacred duty, Mulcahy finished arranging his clothing and went back to the mess tent for the Sunday morning mass.  
  
Now, normally he would have peeked into the mesh screen separating himself from the inside of the makeshift cathedral, seen the audience (today composed of a nervous-looking kid in a wheelchair with one leg up in a cast, and one slightly older soldier who'd managed to get here before his medications kicked in and had him leaning up against one of the mess tent's support beams in a kind of torpor), been disappointed, but gone in cheerful and grateful for what audience could scrape itself together out of the harsh conditions of being so close to the front. Today, he burst into the doors without hesitation and took his place behind the pulpit. Igor, who was carrying the leftover breakfast slop out the back into whatever space they used to convert breakfast slop into lunch slop, paused for a moment to have seen the Padre acting so out of character twice in one morning.  
  
Mulcahy crossed himself and, in casting his eyes down in humble subservience to the Lord, automatically looked for the normal set of notes he'd have set there, had this week been any normal week and this Sunday been any normal Sunday. Not finding any, however, he did not, as he might have ordinarily, panic, but he looked up, lifted his chin, and began.  
  
"The light of Sunday morning dawn once again falls on us here, in Korea, as it will on all our friends and loved ones back in America. What greater proof is there of God's love for us than this vouchsafe of protection from the night, protection from the darkness of fear and the coldness of a fate worse than the grave."  
  
Mulcahy took a breath and looked exhortingly to each of the two members of his audience.  
  
"I know that it is... easy... in a place such as this, where death and destruction are so rampant, to say that there is no God, or that God has no concern for us in our misery. But you must believe. People die. Such is life. We may mourn, and we may be mourned in turn, and all the good and righteous will be reunited in God's kingdom hereafter.  
  
"But there are things in this world more severe than the death of a loved one, and much more abhorrent in the eyes of God than the temporary separation of two good souls! And to those who believe will be given the vision to see these things as they are, and not as they pretend to be. And to those who believe will be given the power to stop them. They are here! Now! Proving themselves openly! But open your eyes and see that their intentions are not as pure as they propose! They make noises and excuses for themselves, but in their dark dealings, what unholy powers will they use to trap the unwary and the unprepared.  
  
"Protection will be given to those who recognize the true enemies of God, and a release from the binding force of their dark magics!" Mulcahy proclaimed, much to the confusion of the boy in the wheelchair, who was politely listening and quietly trying to figure out what all of this was a metaphor for, and to the consternation of the man who stirred a bit from his drug-induced slumber by the raised pitch of the Hunter's voice.  
  
"But those who don't believe that such traps might be set for a man," he resumed, his voice now quiet and admonitory, "will easily fall into them, and might never realize the danger he's in, never listening out for warnings from a God he's sure does not exist, until the creatures he's fallen in among have..."  
  
For once he faltered. "Have... corrupted him... to the point of... by..."  
  
"Look, Father," the Toreador's words came rushing back to him as he tried to think of a concrete example of how she'd tried to win him over to her foul ways, "I know you might feel like... that... now, but... well, you won't, always, and you don't want to do anything that you'll regret for the rest of your life. Okay? Besides which, you're forgetting: I'm a happily married woman."  
  
"By..." his voice trailed off to a mumble, "By stopping you from making a complete fool of yourself."  
  
"I know it doesn't make much sense now, but it will, later, when all of this will go away," her words kept coming, despite his rather eager desire that they stop, and relieve his cheeks of the heavy burden of all this blushing. "And I'm explaining it now because you might be too angry with me later to want to speak to me and let me explain myself. So I just want to say that I'm terribly sorry for what I'm going to have to do to you."  
  
The lad in the wheelchair was looking with a good dose of confusion toward the pulpit. A moment later, a corpsman came to see if he was ready to get back to post-op.  
  
"Amen," Fahter Mulcahy shakily concluded, and dismissed the congregation.  
  
~ 


	82. Chapter 92,2: DOWNTIME: The Swamp Rats

Hawkeye sat on his bunk, staring out the mesh screen into the dark. He shook his head as he unlaced a boot and tugged it off of his left foot. His foot, big toe poking through a hole, slowly found the ground, then, in a flurry of motion, he slammed the boot down on the floor and leapt up, hobbling around the periphery of the cot to sit down on the opposite edge.  
  
"How can you sit there writing a letter, after all that?" he demanded of his nonchalant-looking tentmate sprawled over the next bunk.  
  
"I'm writing a letter," B.J. explained in his best Daddy-tells-a- story voice, "/because/ of all that."  
  
Hawkeye shifted forward, his hands clasping in front of his spread knees, his back nearly hunched double. "She wasn't bad, Beej. You know that. A little naïve, yeah, but, a really sweet girl. Not exactly the type you'd take home to your mother--"  
  
"Or your local homeless shelter--"  
  
Hawkeye gave B.J. a cold look at that comment, but lifted his hands in defeat. "Fine. I see. Our priest murders somebody, and we're supposed to turn the other cheek."  
  
B.J. looked up silently, his eyes met Hawkeye's, and their obvious disagreement on the topic clashed like waves against rocks, the unending waves of Hawkeye's optimism and cherishment of life against the unyielding boulder of B.J.'s protectiveness for his family. The conversation ended. Hawkeye threw down his other boot and shut off his light, turning to face the screen and try to sleep over the noise of pencil against paper.  
  
'Dear Peg:  
  
'It's been three days since my last letter-- no, make that my first letter-- home. I know I said I'd write you every day, but I figure, what with the army being run by vampires and all, you probably won't get the first one until the first Friday of June. 1960.  
  
'No, darling, I'm not bucking for a section eight, like Klinger. I think I mentioned Klinger last time? Yes, the one who wears women's dresses to get out of the army. He's not doing very well, our Corporal Klinger. But I'll come to that in turn.  
  
'I mentioned before that things were settling down pretty well around here. Colonel Potter and I arrived about the same time, replacements sent in for the 4077th's former C.O. and surgeon, who had both been shipped home. I know Hawkeye misses Trapper (the surgeon), and not a day goes by I'm not regaled with the glorious times they had together here before I came. About Henry, though (the C.O.), nobody really seemed to say much. It was a while before I pieced together that he hadn't made it home.  
  
'So imagine my surprise when he comes back to camp the other night, nearly kills Hawkeye in a state of uncontrollable need for blood, complete with speed and strength like I've NEVER seen. And you should have seen some of the marines I did physicals for before taking this post.  
  
'Since that night, there has been an outbreak of supernaturals wandering around this place. You can tell Erin that there ARE such things as fairies. And not just the type that they don't like in the army. Though I suppose if they knew about these, they'd be pretty against it, too.  
  
'Not that they're as dangerous as the vampires, who call themselves 'kindred,' and belong to an organization called the 'Camarilla.' Radar (our company clerk and resident pooka) is just a sweet kid with a penchant for practical jokes. Remind you of anyone you know?  
  
'Though I've got much less evidence to back up Radar actually being a fairy than Henry actually being a vampire (a fact fairly well proven by now by his allergy to sunlight and penchant for blood, as well as the arrival of a small troupe of other vampires after him), I'm taking it on the word of someone who might be a third kind of... oh, I don't know what I'd call Father Mulcahy. He's our priest. Whether this sight, and these powers over the undead he seems to have are simple tools of the trade, I'm not sure. But I'd figure with Christianity being so widespread, if every priest knew about this Camarilla, the entire world would be yelling about it by now. Whatever he is, he's trying his best. Perhaps a little harder than his best.  
  
'The casualties that have rolled in since I've been here have already been too numerous to count. But in our own private little war, taking place in a suspicious lull in the first one, we've got our own casualty list: Corporal Klinger, who seems to have suffered from the vampiric equivalent of a swift blow to the head, and a young woman (vampire, I guess really not that young) called Meg, who fell to our Priest, as we've all just learned. It's been quite a past few days.  
  
'Keep Erin indoors after dark, and see what you can do about staying in the house after sunset, too. I love you both so much, and I can't believe how much it's going to hurt not to be able to send you this letter. But I'm not quite sure who's reading the mail.  
  
'Love,  
  
'Daddy (B.J.)'  
  
B.J. took the letter, folded it, folded it again, ripped it in half, and then ripped it in half again, putting the pieces under his pillow and lying down to cry himself to sleep for the first time since the first night he inhabited this place and dreamt of his family, far off in the mythical land of the real world, where things were sane and no creatures prowled the nights. 


	83. Chapter 92,3: DOWNTIME: Radar, part I

Radar woke up that next morning with a dull throbbing headache that caused a pounding in his ears like some horses snorting. Opening his eyes, he found the valley and the camp spread out before him, everything as it should be, except, oddly enough, upside down, grassy green blanketing the sky, the palace of heaven's citadel an emerald green slide pointed lazily to the bright blue ground, blazing forth with the cross that reminded Radar, for a moment, of the cross on the Padre's collar.  
  
"What's that doing up there?" he murmured. A sliver of drool was cooling his skin as it trickled up into his hair, and he pulled Qotenmatch closer and curled under his blanket as he sat up, feeling dizzy as he pulled his head upright and cuddled down in the makeshift nest he'd created in the cave across the field.  
  
"Preparing Sunday Morning, ward," Bantelhopp spoke up, "In its  
  
"Accustomed manner. Many sleep, still more  
  
"Do dream, and dawn now puts the dead to sleep  
  
"And parts the lovers lingering in their fear."  
  
Radar leaned down and snatched his woolen cap off a stalagmite, standing back up with a stretch and a cheery bleat as he asked, "Majors Face and Lips?" He hopped over the lip of the cave and landed, wobbling, in the dirt, his cap in one hand and bear in the other. "They aren't afraid of anything."  
  
He lifted a hand and rubbed gently at the silky underside of the dragon, who squawked loudly and mind-whispered the locations of the deep- coated iron death, and he was off, dashing back towards the glowing green of the camp that spread in the morning light, deftly dipping his pace between the threats of the landmines, and duly coming out unscathed on the other side.  
  
Behind the head nurse's tent.  
  
He smiled. 3... 2...  
  
He took a breath and hastened around the building just in time to bump into Frank Burns as the Major had just finished his left-right lookout, and was hurrying to cross the compound before anyone--  
  
"AAaaA!" Frank shouted out.  
  
Radar, looking up with an unphased air, smiled, "Sleep well, sir?"  
  
"Oh, I wasn't sleeping!" Frank automatically spit out in defense.  
  
"If you say so, sir." Radar watched with amusement hidden under his customary wide-eyed stare as Frank's assertion and Radar's response finally registered with the flustered Major.  
  
Frank Burns' face twisted up in the manner of one thoroughly constipated. "You! You and your stupid bear have until the count of three to get out of my sight! One!"  
  
Radar lifted his woolen cap, and, whipping it up under Frank's nose, pulled it backward so that it engulfed the entire top half of the surgeon's head. Frank, stunned by the response, didn't move, but stood there with his mouth hanging open.  
  
Radar shrugged, and turned aside. "Officers," he bleated gaily.  
  
~ 


	84. Chapter 92,4: DOWNTIME: Klinger

Oh god Laverne I didn't want to WHERE IS IT ITS MINE OH GOD I NEED IT! PLEASE, PLEASE DON'T MAKE ME LEAVE I'VE GOT TO  
  
LEAVE ME ALONE I DON'T WANT TO GO TO  
  
I WAS MARRIED IN IT AND IT JUST WOULDN'T OH GOD WHERE  
  
LEAVE ME ALONE OH MY GOD NO NO I PROMISE I'LL BE GOOD JUST DON'T MAKE ME GO TO OH GOD DON'T  
  
~ 


	85. Chapter 92,5: DOWNTIME: Radar, part II

Radar crossed the compound with a nagging feeling in his stomach. He didn't have to look back to know that Frank had thrown the cap to the ground and stormed off. "I must just be hungry," he told Bantelhopp, who was questioning him about the feeling. "I'll bet everybody else is, too."  
  
"Everybody else is what?" Said a voice that in no way belonged to the falcon-headed dragon on his head.  
  
Radar turned around, grinning an affable grin at the wounded soldier in the wheelchair who was being wheeled over to the mess tent.  
  
"Hungry. I was just talking about all the people headed over to breakfast." He gestured to all the other people - a sum total of one drowsy-looking man hobbling across the pounded dirt of the compound. "Is that where you're going?"  
  
The kid shook his head as Radar fell into line beside the rolling chair. "They fed us earlier. I'm going to the mass."  
  
"Oh!" Radar commented, "Well, it's a good thing that's where you're going, because that's where you're headed."  
  
The boy looked confused for a moment, and opened his mouth to ask a question further, but before he did, his face just broke into a smile and he laughed at the Pooka's words, doing much for Radar's morale and relieving that ooky feeling in the pit of his stomach.  
  
When the laughter died down, he explained, simply and earnestly, "I promised Mom I'd go to church when I could, over here."  
  
Radar nodded in a mockingly sage manner, "Oh, yeah, well, you gotta listen to your ma. You should get wounded more often, huh?" Another patch of giggles from the weary-looking kid. "Say hi to her for me," Radar waved as he parted from the caravan of two and instead skirted around the side of the mess tent.  
  
~ 


	86. Chapter 92,6: DOWNTIME: Sidney

Sidney Freedman was sitting up in Frank's bunk, looking over the two comatose Swamp Rats and Sparky, who was dozing lightly in the spare bunk, having found some rope to tie his regnant's gratefully-recovered medical supplies to himself, fearful of misplacing them again.  
  
Frank had never come back to the tent the previous night, so Sidney took the liberty of making himself feel at home. Now, as the day wore on towards noon, he was awake, and thoughtful.  
  
He was thinking, specifically, about whether or not he had been completely duped.  
  
Sure, he knew that the human race as a whole were being duped out of a kind of knowledge that they probably had the right to know, and Sidney felt all the normal shock to his system of any everyday mortal who finds himself on the receiving end of a massive Masq breach. For this particular mortal, however, so used to seeing all the shocks a human mind can suffer, the blow seemed to roll off of him like water off a duck's back. Sure, he realized that he'd been living in ignorant bliss of a lot of things up until this point, and, quite reasonably, he assumed that there were many still more surprises out there waiting for his paradigm to expand and encompass them, distasteful as they may be.  
  
He was never too concerned about that. He always made it his practice to take with the least bit of stress whatever comes along. Better for the psyche that way. Only one thought plagued that clear, straightforward mind.  
  
Guilt Actualization Syndrome. A recent addition to the psychology books, briefly mocked by most young students of the trade for its acronym, before they realize its breadth and severity.  
  
His doctoral alma mater's psychology faculty had all collaborated on the newest cutting-edge research on the topic, and he, in the middle of it all, had become rather versed in the new field.  
  
The syndrome seemed to strike mainly in young adults whose families complained of their wild behavior even before they began to speak of monsters. When their eyes became bloodshot from lack of sleep, from dark nights staying up locked in their rooms, and when their speech became peppered with unintelligible 'they's and 'them's, young people and old people alike from all over the country as well as a few from Europe were routed through the research clinic in New York where a young Sidney Freedman spent four years working on their files.  
  
As its name implied, the most current theories of the syndrome's provenience were having to do with the embodiment of guilt in a licentious society and fear of punishment that does not seem forthcoming from any other source in a physical entity or group of entities which the subject believes are real.  
  
Sidney himself had postulated that the rather common image of mysterious blood loss among these patients stemmed from a need to pay a personal penalty for their misdeeds. His work had been praised from the highest offices in the institution.  
  
~ 


	87. Chapter 92,7: DOWNTIME: Radar, part III,...

"Gee, thanks, Igor."  
  
"No problem. My nose hairs were starting to curl anyway. I think the lettuce is growing hair."  
  
"Oh! Isn't that neat, so're all Babette's pups. Maybe they can help one another." Radar grinned and Igor smiled in pleasant confusion before turning away into the kitchen.  
  
Radar shifted the tray of vegetables he'd gotten from the mess officer up onto a hand, waiter-style, and he was starting to head off towards his zoo when a voice from inside the tent caught his attention. He gave a pause, one foot lifted comically into the air. Father Mulcahy's sermon had begun.  
  
"Oh, boy," he whispered to himself, getting the gist of the preaching, "The Colonel and I have really put ants in his pants, huh? I haven't heard him talk like that since the one time Trapper stole one of his collars and put it on the camp mutt."  
"He'll come around, young ward," spoke Bantelhopp,  
  
"And soon, I think, but wait upon't. But you,  
  
"dear Radar, you must likewise fare, and come  
  
"around to what must now be done in life."  
Radar groaned, "Guys... not this again, you've told me 10 times already."  
"True was it then, and yet true stands it now,  
  
"The corpses to us stand a mighty blow,  
  
"And if with corpses company you keep,  
  
"Ten days times twenty hence, without a peep,  
  
"Without a whisper, bang, or other noise,  
  
"Into the mad world's sane and blackened void,  
  
"Like will you unto them in every way,  
  
"Just so the downfall of once-mighty Fae."  
Radar understood. He couldn't NOT understand, try though he might. Still, he shrugged, and continued out around the mess tent, leaving the position of Mulcahy's unseen audience and heading toward the little zoo he'd built up nearby. Not too closeby, of course. He'd seen the chef giving them the eye once or twice.  
  
"You're being all nonsense again, Ban," Radar muttered drily, his head hanging in precognition of the harangue he knew was coming.  
"I tell you plain, then, what thou willst not hear,  
  
"Your Henry's sort and yours have never mixed,  
  
"And if too long you will yourself too near,  
  
"In danger will your sorted lot be fixed."  
Radar opened Babette's cage and started pulling out some of the less fetid bits of lettuce for her. He gave Bantelhopp a rough shove with a knuckle of a lettuce-bearing hand, bleating gently in disdain.  
  
"Would you quit acting like I'm some kinda kid, Ban? Really! I'm a man, now, I can make my own decisions."  
  
"I know what I'm doing." He added with a sulky air, after a bit of thought, closing his eyes and lifting his stately muzzle into the air.  
  
Opening them again, he found himself looking Babette in her little black, beady eyes. He frowned.   
  
"?uoy od, dab taht s'lenoloC eht kniht t'nod uoY"  
  
Babette chittered, chattered, and squeaked in the following vein, "Colonel? Yes. Something -- SQUEAK! -- happened. He's... No I don't like."  
  
Radar shook his head as he felt Bantelhopp beginning to say something that might be translated as "I told you so."  
  
"That's what you call the, uh, postal-part depression talking." He nodded, and smiled, watching the young ones crawling around friskily at this point. "They just need a little fresh air." He wrinkled his nose at the hideous cages. "I think everybody could use to get out of the house a little bit."  
  
His merry grin grew with every cage latch he undid, and every creature he allowed to run free in the compound.  
  
~ 


	88. Chapter 92,8: DOWNTIME: Colonel Potter

"What the blue blazes..!" Colonel Potter sputtered, and his neck pulled his head back, his face scrunching up in a disgusted expression as he nearly stepped on a skunk, which duly stood up on its hind legs, curiously peeping up at the man who'd tried to use it as a doormat.  
  
Potter shook his head, "O'Reilly," he mumbled, as he scooped up the skunk in his outstretched arms, keeping his head turned to one side as he continued to wonder whether his company clerk had decided to give him a different odor every day.  
  
"Corporal O'Reilly!" he repeated, bellowing now in his customary manner as he entered his clerk's office, using the skunk to push the door open, making it chitter indignantly at the abuse.  
  
"Corporal O'--" the Colonel began to yell again, when his eyes went wide. Slightly bloodshot as they were from the lack of decent sleep, they looked terrifyingly angry as his jaw set in a firm scowl. The office was crawling. A guinea pig was making a nest out of a pile of file folders. The possum had taken up residence clinging onto the switchboard, its head turning to look (as he imagined) with guilt towards the door when the Colonel walked in. The tortoise was slowly making its way into the center of the floor, but even it paused and looked up from what it was doing. Fluffy and Bonzo made rather suggestive noises from under the cot. A few mice scampered fleetingly out of the door of the C.O. office, being held open for the moment by a furred little white rump, and a pair of frisky lambish thighs on which beat a floppy woolen tail. The door swung jollily shut as the little sheep moved inside.  
  
Trying to calm himself, Potter firmly set the skunk down on top of the cot, and, grimacing, began to step over and around the various creatures, heading towards his office with a determination to get to the bottom of this growing to match the swiftly steepening dread that that was building in his heart of looking into the next room.  
  
He put his hand on the door and shut his eyes for a moment, steeling himself against whatever might be coming. Like the fact that the door was opened into his push just as he was about to go in.  
  
"Oh! Sorry, sir!" Radar exclaimed, "I didn't know you were up, yet."  
  
"Obviously not," the Colonel replied drily, taking a moment to give the Corporal's attire a grave look up and down. Radar was 'dressed' in a hastily donned pair of pants which he was more or less holding up, not having had time to fasten them in any manner. His top half was bare, and one hand came up to cover his chest in embarrassment, then to salute awkwardly.  
  
"Well, sir, you see--"  
  
"Yes, I'm sure you've got plenty of explanations, Corporal, but I'm really not in any mood to listen to them right now. So, if you can take a second out of your ever -- blessed -- schedule, get these little friends out yours out of here, or by Bessie's blue bonnet I'll have you stripped down to private! NOT --" he added, "That you need any help!"  
  
"But sir, they--" Radar tried, but was cut off:  
  
"OUT! OUT!"  
  
Radar slouched, his short stature becoming even smaller looking with the verbal beating, and he fastened up his pants as he bleated gently. The one time members of his zoo, much to the Colonel's surprise (though in retrospect, he wasn't sure why he felt that way), seemed to look up at his sounds.  
  
There was a thump as the possum dropped from the switchboard. Babette chattered and rounded up her young. The bunnies ran out from under the bed and were easily out the door. Even the tortoise had taken a step toward the outdoors before Radar picked him up and carried him the rest of the way.  
  
The Colonel sighed and went to go inspect the damage in the other room. Thankfully, there wasn't anything too horribly odd about it, besides the remnants of Radar's uniform, scattered here and there as if tossed about by a playful dog of some sort. Shaking his head, Colonel Potter patted the horse's hindquarter and flank as he passed to climb behind his new desk and sit down.  
  
Looking over the stacks of paperwork, he groaned. The first day he was here, the clerk had provided him with a neat and accurate stack of forms for him to sign. The second day had been much the same. The third, he'd gotten nearly nothing at all, as well as the fifth. Of course, this had all been reasonably understandable, what with the odd goings-on hereabout.  
  
Now this-- this was worse. Some pages had been crudely typed, others written in with paper or simply illustrated with drawn sketches or clipouts from magazines or Grape Nehi labels. Three days' of forms. Not a single one intelligible, all full of nonsense, all full of--  
  
The horse? Wait a second...  
  
Colonel Potter looked up in surprise, his breath taken away when he realized the presence of the mare, and he pushed himself up from his desk, slowly, in awe, not wanting to scare her.  
  
But his fears were baseless. The horse turned her head out of the corner and nodded jollily at him, moving a shoulder to seem to tell him to come closer. And he did. All his anxieties were swept away as the lovely creature seemed to smile at him and tell him to 'mellow out' a bit.  
  
"Hey, girl." The Colonel began to speak to her, "That crazy clerk of mine put you in here?"  
  
"Yeah, I know. I don't know what his problem is, either," Potter lied, beginning to stroke down the mare, falling into the normal pattern. He really just wanted to forget that any of the last three days had taken place, that he had ever completely lost control of his new command and, for that matter, of his mind. The Colonel was so soothed by the mare's presence that he didn't even seem to mind laying out Radar's clothing on his cot for him, and sorting through and correcting all the mis-labeled paperwork.  
  
~ 


	89. Chapter 92,9: DOWNTIME: Finale, or, For ...

Sidney stood restlessly in the doors of post-op, crossing his arms as he watched the nurse on duty put Klinger, who was on the verge of waking up, back to sleep. It was clear that he was in no condition to be awake. Sidney lowered his eyes and tugged his hat characteristically down over the thick padding of his hair, he turned back out the door.  
  
They wouldn't be able to keep Klinger sedated forever. At some point, Sidney would have to have him restrained enough to stay still while he tried to speak with him. It was a job that he was torn between looking forward to diving into and one which he'd like to put off for the rest of time. The first sensation was his professional curiosity, the second the urge to flee what he didn't know combined with the fear that there would be more to uncover about the vampires' control over the human mind, and it was all confused with a sinking sense of guilt that nagged at him from behind, wondering why he hadn't just given Klinger that discharge he'd wanted.  
  
But he couldn't start second-guessing himself, now. He'd had reasons for what he'd done in the past, and, if the reasons change, then he'll just have to change his behavior to conform to the new circumstances.  
  
He shook his head as he found himself analyzing his own thoughts, and he tucked those thoughts back in his subconscious where they belonged. He turned and the door shut behind him. Lifting his head to take a breath of the fresh afternoon air, he found himself face to face with the company clerk. He hadn't heard him coming. Not that anyone ever did.  
  
Stepping back and finding himself pressed uncomfortably close to the post- op doors, Sidney lifted a hand to the little brim of his captain's cap and tipped it a little, "Radar," he greeted.  
  
"Nope," Radar replied absently, the Fae taking over his tongue while he stood on tiptoe a bit to try to look over Sidney's shoulder, "How is he?" he asked.  
  
Sidney looked down, having to admit that he was surprised to find Radar, cute, sweet, little Puritan Radar walking around without short, shoes, or socks, with an entourage of mice at his feet and a tortoise in his arms.  
  
"Asleep." Sidney finally responded, sidestepping the question, "Are YOU okay?"  
  
"That bad, huh?" Radar asked timidly, Bantelhopp whispering the psychologist's thoughts and concerns about the corpsman into his ear. "They really got 'im... I mean... He did. The Colonel... I mean, not our Colonel, the... other one."  
  
Radar finally stopped babbling, and planted his bare heels back onto the round, looking up into Sidney's eyes. "Yeah, I'm fine," he replied, eyes imploring.  
  
Sidney put a hand on the Pooka's shoulder and led him along into a slow walk across the compound. "Want to talk about it?" he asked, the insights of his profession being, at least in some instances, as useful as a falcon- headed dragon.  
  
"Not really BUT--" Radar quickly appended, "If you really want to hear, well, then, I'll tell ya."  
  
"Okay," Sidney smiled, and put his hands behind his back in the 'listening' pose, wandering ahead with his face turned down and sideways towards the complaining changeling.  
  
"I don't think that Colonel Potter likes all this cold weather we've been having. I kind of wish Sparky weren't here, so he'd be back at the 121st ordering us those new blankets and doing whatever else it is he... does up there."  
  
"Uh-huh." Sidney said, in that way that psychologists have, and it made Radar a little nervous, unsure if Sidney was just saying that, or really understood what he felt.  
  
"But, uh, Sparky and I have talked to each other since the first day I got here, and I'm real, real glad to finally get to meet him."  
  
"Uh-huh."  
  
Radar walked alongside Sidney, his hands jammed in his pockets, "And other people are complaining about how cold it's getting, too, and if Sparky would just GO AWAY then we'd get our blankets real soon. But I... I'd like to spend some more time with him, y'know?" He looked up, looking mildly wretched and wholly helpless.  
  
"I know, Radar. Sparky's being here is a little strange for all of us. But we'll adapt. We'll adapt or we'll die, every last one of us, man, woman, or supernatural creature. In the meanwhile, we shouldn't let those kinds of distinctions get in the way of a good friendship, a caring, mutual friendship that could potentially stand the test of time."  
  
By this time, it was clear that they were no longer, and likely had never been, talking about Sparky.  
  
The Pooka nodded his head towards the ground, then looked up with a wide grin as Colonel Potter rode out of the offices atop a frisky-looking Sophie, looking more peaceful and happy than he had in days. Between the stacks of horse memorabilia that had arrived along with the new C.O., and a little hint from the other side, Radar had gotten an inkling that a new friend might cheer the Colonel up.  
  
~ 


	90. Chapter 93: Korea by Night

Evening fell. Mother Moon smiled and helped it to its feet. Together they ran through the sky until they came to the air over the 4077th Mobile Army Surgical Hospital, where she leaned down at Evening's side and pointed out the festivities to her young son.  
  
"Happy days are here again..." sang the P.A. system, and in the last throes of daylight all the lamps began to sparkle which had been taken out the night before. Some lit the compound where people began to congregate before moving into the officer's club.  
  
Henry woke up, and, he being somewhat drained from the scuffle last night, the blood began to flow along with the booze. Not necessarily separate from one another.  
  
And soon, the other vampires having not woken up yet, Henry was out on the golf course, sparsely lit with lamps, impressing the swamprats with his par- four shooting of the par-37, mile and a half long course.  
  
"Hey, not bad, Henry," Hawkeye grinned.  
  
"Yeah," Henry laughed, "A little bit of practice, I'll be hitting these things back to my favorite course back home." Henry whistled to see the golf ball disappear into the dark night air, and tipped his hat back, crossing his legs and leaning on the club.  
  
The three looked up and nodded as Colonel Potter trotted his new mount, whom he'd decided, with Radar's help, to call Sophie, up a makeshift trail he'd constructed during the day, giving in to the air of enforced leisure the rest of the camp was enjoying. Paperwork could wait. The army wasn't expecting it from them, anyway. And, true to the seneschal's word, no casualties had come through since that first batch that night.  
  
Margaret Houlihan gave Frank Burns a grope on her way through post-op, and he, recognizing the signal, went "for a coffee break."  
  
His ferret face scrunched up in irritation as he 'accidentally' caught up with his female counterpart outside. The music was playing, there was laughter from the O.C., the loud smack of a golf ball being slammed with superhuman strength, and, finally, the clopping of hooves across the compound. The two majors turned their heads as their new C.O. passed them, looking down at them with a smile and a salute. In time, they raised their hands in a shaky return of the gesture, watching him as he disappeared behind a tent.  
  
"A zoo, Margaret!" Frank whimpered, "This place is falling apart!"  
  
"I agree, Frank." Margaret huffed, "It's disgraceful!"  
  
"Margaret! What can we do? The phones won't work except for that... that... ghoul of theirs! And you saw what happened to the Father and that Loony when they tried to get out of here by jeep!"  
  
Margaret coughed, and straightened her back decisively. "A real man would KNOW what to do, Frank."  
  
Frank hrrmphed and straightened in an exaggerated mockery of Margaret's gesture, his mouth puckering in a self-assured expression as his head tilted wildly from side to side, a crudely enacted swagger as he boasted, "Well-- well of COURSE I know what to do, Margaret, I'll just, find one of those creatures, I'll walk right up to him and tell him just what I think of him and his sort, I'll say--"  
  
"Yes, Major Burns?" Frank was cut off, and the two majors took their eyes off of one another to face front once more, where Irene was standing, smiling politely.  
  
"I... um..." he sputtered, and Margaret shakily took his arm.  
  
"Don't kill me." Frank squeaked, "Take her!" he shoved Margaret in front of him, or more accurately, hid behind her.  
  
Irene laughed, "Major Burns, I'd be fascinated to listen to your ideas on 'my sort' some time, and you needn't fear any retribution for your beliefs. I can assure you with confidence it's probably nothing I haven't heard before. Now, be a gentleman to this nice young woman," she smiled at Margaret, her smile knowing but demure, "And escort her wherever it is she happens to be going. I've noticed the amount of... animal excrement in the area, and women shouldn't have to walk in that. But first, if you don't mind, could you tell me where Captain Pierce is?"  
  
Frank bit his lip in fright at the speech, but hesitantly came out form behind Margaret again. "Um, he's... he's..."  
  
"Coming, Frank," Hawkeye called from across the compound, Henry and himself leading the way back to camp, golf clubs bared over their shoulders like old pros, B.J. following behind with his arms crossed.  
  
Irene turned around, her face beaming with a pleasant smile, "Oh, good evening, Captain," she nodded, "Colonel." She added, to Henry.  
  
Henry, unsteadied, raised a little salute, but Hawkeye simply returned the smile, "Come on, I'll let you in on a little secret: We've got our own little masquerade going, we're not actually part of the Army. We're not even doctors, we just played them in a movie once."  
  
Irene, charmed, laughed.  
  
"It's Hawkeye," the Captain announced, "And Henry."  
  
"Very well, Hawkeye, Henry," she tilted her head toward the sullen-looking man behind the other two. "B.J., wasn't it?"  
  
"It was," he replied.  
  
She began to address him further, but, seeing that he was uncomfortable, she let it pass. "Henry," she started again, bright as a penny and eyes curious, "How long have you been up?"  
  
"Ah, uh, hour, hour and a half..." Henry trailed off, unsure why she was asking him and thus a little anxious.  
  
Irene nodded, "Oh, to be young again, and able to wake up with the sunset," she sighed nostalgically, "But speaking of waking up, may I ask how my husband's faring?"  
  
Hawkeye came closer and took Irene's hand, "I don't know how to tell you this, but I think he's dead."  
  
Irene laughed and squeezed Hawkeye's hand gently. Her hand was freezing cold, and as her beautiful voice echoed across the compound a cool breeze blew and chilled the area. "Yes, I figured as much, but how else?"  
  
Hawkeye stepped back, "Honestly, I have no idea. Remember, he's only the second vampire I've ever examined. But now that you're up, I'd suggest that we go see."  
  
Henry lingered a bit as the other two started into the post-op.  
  
Irene turned back, noticing that he wasn't following. "Henry," she said soothingly, "Don't worry. The sun passing overhead has a habit of putting the beast back into its place. I doubt he'll be so violent again this evening."  
  
Henry's eyebrows rose and he reached up and rubbed his neck where the Seneschal, in his ravings of last evening, had bitten him. "Thank the lord for the daytime, then," he muttered to himself and followed after Hawkeye and Irene.  
  
~ 


	91. Chapter 94: In Which PostOp Briefly Bec...

The post-operative ward was nearly empty, only a few cases lingering behind from the last sniper attack. The major fixtures, of course, were the sedated, restrained Corporal Maxwell Q. Klinger, and the Malkavian who'd spent the day carefully wrapped up in fire blankets, a screen pulled around the bed to separate him from the rest of the ward and from the hands of uninformed nurses.  
  
Since evening had fallen, he'd been desegregated, unwrapped, and he lay there, quite still, eyes open and face frozen in an anguished, perhaps pleading expression.  
  
Passing Klinger, Irene duly looked away while the doctors made a brief examination of his charts. She went and sat, a dutiful wife, at Joly's side, perching on the edge of the next cot and fingering back his hair with her nimble digits, relaxing his facial muscles with a light massage to close his eyes and put a more dignified expression on his face as the concerned voices of the doctors across the room faded into the background.  
  
She smiled to see the beauty of her loved one's face uncontorted by the pain he suffered last night, and, as was her custom, let the vision be swirled about in the familiar pale colors of her man's aura, certainly nothing as brilliant as she'd seen the night before, but a kind of familiarity was there that drew her forward to place a short kiss on his forehead.  
  
She sat up quickly and smoothed her silken dress as the others wandered over.  
  
"Oh, don't let us interrupt, kids." Hawkeye winked, and Irene was amazed how much this man could make her feel like she was a teenager again, with all the years she'd put behind her.  
  
"How's he doing?" Henry followed up, leaning against the bedframe, all three doctors at a complete loss as to what they ought to do for the Malkavian in front of them. Out of habit he leaned over and pulled an eyelid up to look at the pupil, which was, of course, completely unresponsive. Joles certainly did SEEM dead.  
  
"There's only one way to tell," Irene settled back.  
  
"The, uh--" Henry started, cut off by a nod from Irene.  
  
"Oh, Henry," She smiled, "You remember."  
  
Henry grimaced a little. "Yeah." He hesitantly admitted. "I'll, uh... do it. Gloves?"  
  
He was feeling more than a little strange as he was gloved, especially with the audience that was growing around them; Hawkeye and B.J. had sent a corpsman out to fetch Sidney, and Radar had imagined that he should bring Colonel Potter along to post-op.  
  
"Hey, Hawk, B.J--" Sidney started as he approached the bed. He cut his speech short as Henry leaned down and rolled Joles gently over onto his side.  
  
"You needed to see me, Pierce?" Potter asked, before falling into a similar silence.  
  
Radar peeked up over Colonel Potter's shoulder, and, slamming his hands up under his glasses, over his eyes, squirmed around and just about summed up everybody's feelings on the matter: "Oh, ICK!"  
  
Henry himself was having a few issues with the fact that he was currently the center of attention while digging a bit of jagged wood out of a gaping, bloody hole in the Seneschal's back.  
  
Leslie Scorch was the only nurse in the room with the wits about her to come with a surgical tray to take the stake when Henry finally stood up with it. He gave her a grateful look, then nodded, and she took it away to dispose of it. Holding out his bloodily gloved hands, he looked down to Joles' body, which wasn't moving yet, and, moreover, had blood dripping slowly out the back of his green jacket.  
  
His brow furrowed. That wasn't how it was supposed to work... he thought. Henry looked up to Irene, questioning.  
  
She sat quite still, watching the scene without the slightest bit of obvious discomfort. "He needs vitae-- blood." She explained in reply to the puzzled looks she received from all around.  
  
Henry nodded, "Leslie, get a unit of--"  
  
He stopped as Irene shook her head.  
  
"No?" He was unutterably puzzled.  
  
"I meant, in this case, kindred blood."  
  
"Oh." Henry mused. "Wait-- what?"  
  
Irene stood up and faced Henry, "Only a bit. Blood. Our sort, not theirs. Undead. Powerful. Potent."  
  
Henry took a step back and shook his head, "Oh, no. Not that again," he warned, shaking his head most decidedly. The last time the Seneschal drank from him, he'd sworn it was going to REMAIN the last time. As Hawkeye had decided earlier, those particular feelings were not ones he was comfortable feeling about another man.  
  
"Henry..." Irene spoke, in a manner between chiding and laughing as she moved around the bed, deftly lifting a ready cardiac needle from the back table near the O.R. doors., "Calm down. You're as jumpy as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs." She faced him, and he faced her, and she smiled and nodded reassuringly, in a manner denoting that she knows something he doesn't; that she doesn't want to articulate it just now; that it will turn out well for Henry to cooperate in the end.  
  
Henry, duly getting the message, and having little recourse at this point other than to jump over the seneschal of belt his wife, neither of which he thought would be the best of options considering everything else he'd done wrong so far, slowly rolled up his armsleeve and proffered the crook of his elbow to Irene. By the quickness with which the act was done, she'd obviously done this quite often.  
  
There was no kiss, and, though Henry wouldn't exactly have minded getting such attention from the lovely black-haired woman, he didn't miss it in front of a large crowd of people, especially one including (albeit asleep) the selfsame woman's husband.  
  
Irene stepped back a moment later, the syringe full. "Thank you." She uttered cheerily.  
  
"You're welcome?" Henry supposed, dazed.  
  
~ 


	92. Chapter 94 and a half: And Colonel Potte...

The Colonel rolled supine as the vitae roused him from his torpor, and before anything else the words "Capital R!" flew from his mouth. But immediately after this he began to recuperate; the gaping hole in his back, now hidden from sight, healed up nicely. His heart then began to beat in its steady rhythm once more, and his lungs, emptied by the cry, began to suck in useless air as if they required oxygen.  
  
Regaining his bearings, he grasped the bed on either side of himself and sat up, breathing intently, looking first to the crowd around his right side, then up to his wife and the fledgling Brujah on his left. Though not embarrassed, his face colored as his heart's work began to show on his skin, turning the white flesh ruddy.  
  
"Christ our Savior and his Maiden Mother," Joles swore mildly, "What on earth happened?"  
  
Hawkeye stepped into the space between the two cots, sitting down on the empty one where Irene had been sitting moments earlier. He folded his hands seriously. "You went a little... well, off the deep end last night. We had to have Sparky stake you. We think it might have been a case of battle fatigue."  
  
Joles looked incredulous, "Battle fatigue? But we're not even at the front."  
  
"Doesn't matter," Sidney chipped in, leaning against the bed frame, "Colonel, I've seen cases of battle fatigue in guys who haven't even left Japan."  
  
"It may not be the front, Colonel," Henry added, voice low and serious, "But I've seen more than my fair share of men crack up in my ranks. It took me a week to stop putting my underwear on backwards. You weren't expecting to come here and have to pitch in with the O.R.; heck, before all this happened, you probably weren't planning on coming here, period! Look, nobody could be expected to have to adjust to this mess overnight. A man's got to have time to build up his defenses a little. I've seen men driven to drink, some to women, others to rules and regulations, others to hare- brained schemes to get out or rampant practical joking to cover up the pain. You aren't staying here; you don't have to build up any walls that you'll have to break down again later; the 'm' in your mind doesn't have to stand for 'mobile.' You're lucky. But while you're here, you're going to be defenseless against a kind of wound you might not be ready for."  
  
Irene stayed quietly in the background, watching her husband's face, hiding under a suitably solemn expression the grin that wanted to grace her lovely features as she saw the realization of her work. Between the blood exchanged in last night's... activities, and that which she'd just now administered from the Brujah to the Malkavian, Henry had become quite a likable fellow in Joles' eyes. He was convinced. The fact that he'd been a vampire for over a century and had, in that time, seen atrocious acts that would make even a depraved human heart shudder was swept under the carpet of Joles' subconscious as he bowed his head in respect for Henry's speech. Even without the bloodbond in place, however, the sentiment had much the same effect on the rest of the crowd. The only one left not horribly affected was Irene, who enjoyed the speech anyway, and feigned 'stunned appreciation of deep thoughts' very well.  
  
Joles, for his part, waited a moment until it was clear that Henry had finished. That is to say, as far as it's ever clear that Henry's finished: thankfully he managed to end this particular speech with the bare minimum of trailings-off and hemming and hawing.  
  
And then he swung his legs out of the cot and stood, facing Henry, looking as dignified as a man possibly could with a bloody hole in the back of his jacket.  
  
"I'd like to thank you, Blake. You know my clan's propensity for being a little on the unstable side..."  
  
Henry wasn't exactly sure whether it'd be the best plan to agree or disagree on this point, having the vague notion that Klinger might have ended up in the state he's in now by offending the Seneschal somehow on that point. He settled for a simple "Um..."  
  
Joles held up a hand, in an affable mood, "You're concerned about my feelings! No need, I know our reputation. But the fact is that you--" he turned and looked to the rest, to B.J., Sidney, Radar, and Colonel Potter, "That all of you, despite our current impasse, took care to see me back to health in your... crude... but well-meaning institution."  
  
He turned back to Henry, "And in return I think it's only fair for me to offer some sort of treaty in this battle. A truce?" He held out a hand.  
  
Henry, startled, took a moment to spit it out, but finally repeated, "A truce!" most agreeably, and shook on it.  
  
The small group of other personnel provided a general chorus of approbation. The group repaired to the camp office for belts of liquor for those who could still drink the stuff and a brief discussion of the outline of this new agreement.  
  
It was agreed that there would be no more deaths or severe cripplings (or cripplings of any sort!) among the members of the 4077th M*A*S*H and the visiting representatives of the Camarilla. It was further agreed that all hard feelings that might exist about prior incidents of this sort should be tucked away somewhere not readily accessible. It was further agreed, slightly more seriously, that the 4077th would make efforts towards staunching rumors of vampire existence where they lay, and the Camarilla wouldn't entirely wipe them off the face of the planet. Here Joles made a halfhearted attempt to include in the negotiations a clause whereby he could take Father Mulcahy along with him to lend to the Tremere for further study, but, after being forced to admit that the 4077th would probably never get their chaplain BACK (unless they actually wanted back the puddle of chaplain-goo that would probably remain of him when the Tremere got through), the clause was quickly shot down, even by Irene, who gave her husband a firm thwack on the shoulder, though he protested that he was only kidding, after all. Further stipulation was made that if the 4077th would agree to not spread any knowledge of the supernatural that had been gained during this encounter, that the Camarillites must do the same.  
  
"Okay, anything else?" Potter yelled out, waiting for the next issue to be brought up. Long ago the drawing up of the contract had driven off the Pooka with its utter boringness. He looked up from the piece of paper in shock as nobody responded.  
  
"Nothing?" he asked, "Well, then!" he smiled, pleased, "Looks like we've got ourselves a deal."  
  
Joles stood up and gave a slight bow, "Agreed, Colonel, and it was a ple--"  
  
"Wait!" Irene cut in, putting her hand on Joly's arm.  
  
"There IS one more item I think we ought to discuss... one more... issue... I'd really like to put to rest..."  
  
~ 


	93. Chapter 95: A Visit From A Friend

He should have answered the knocking that came on the rattling wooden door of his tent with a shout of "Come in!" in such welcoming and eager tones as to melt the heart of anyone who heard it. Three days ago, with near invariability would this message be shouted out by the priest who'd then scuffle about to make things pleasant for whomever his visitor might be. But not tonight.  
  
Instead of straightening the covers on his cot, neatly arranging the bible on his table, and making sure that everything was presentable, Father Mulcahy turned to face the door, crouching a bit into a defensive stance, and asked loudly, "Who's there?"  
  
Irene's face poked in through a tiny, widening crack in the door. "Safe in here?" she asked jokingly.  
  
Mulcahy nodded pensively and stepped back, "Yes."  
  
"Oh, good," Irene breezed in, a breeze acompanying her as well, making one edge of her thick Korean dress flicker, and the tent turn cool. "I'm to tell you there's a truce on, anyhow, and so there won't be any more of that fiery sword of yours." With these words she'd drifted over to in front of him and bapped an index finger lightly on the tip of his nose.  
  
"Colonel Potter's orders," she added, lifting a hand as a pledge of honesty when he looked at her a little distrustfully.  
  
He nodded, "All... all right." He was trying to broach some subject with her, but wasn't exactly sure how to go about it.  
  
She tilted her head, and frowned thoughtfully as she tried to read him. The tent was quiet as she awkwardly turned her lifted hand between them and quickly, nearly before he could see her do it, bit it, lifting it for him to drink from again. By all rights the first level of the bloodbond should have made him receptive to the second.  
  
But instead the priest bristled back in disgust at the display, wincing away from the welling blood that flowed slowly from her wrist down into her palm. Not that he'd never seen blood before; far from it. But this, this was different... this was tempting. But he steeled himself, both against going forward and going back, and frowned at her in disapproval.  
  
"Irene," he began softly and sternly, "I appreciate what you were trying to do last night. But I will not-- will NOT-- drink... that."  
  
The wound closed up as if his words had willed it to. Irene, surprised, could only try to get her thoughts together a moment. "The bond didn't take," she finally concluded.  
  
Mulcahy shook his head, "God has offered me a safeguard from your... bond." He was struggling for his own words, but finally ended up repeating hers. "But that doesn't mean," he added, reaching forward and putting a hand on her shoulder, "That I'm not grateful."  
  
Irene lowered her eyes in contemplation, "Are there more of your kind in the world, Father?"  
  
Mulcahy shook his head sadly, "I don't know."  
  
"If there are--" she smiled, and looked up into Mulcahy's eyes, "What am I saying? Even if there aren't, God has given the Kindred a formidable enemy."  
  
She lifted a hand to lift Mulcahy's chin as his self-deprecating nature tried to assert itself, "But just remember, Father," she added, "who your friends are."  
  
Mulcahy nodded shakily, then with more confidence, and a faint smile. "Thank you, Mrs. Tr--"  
  
"Irene."  
  
Mulcahy smiled more easily, "Thanks, Irene."  
  
Irene shook her head with a bright and cheerful manner that nearly made the priest uneasy. "Don't thank me just yet, Padre."  
  
At his confused and somewhat wary look, she flitted over to his table and picked up the bible that was open there, tucking it under arm before he could utter a word of complaint. She tilted her head with a look of urgency on her face and beckoned him with the hand that held the bible as she stood by the door. "Come on!" she urged.  
  
"Wh-- what--?" Mulcahy stammered, then his tongue froze in place altogether as the door opened on a cluster of people standing quietly, solemnly in the compound, hats in hands, where applicable, who all turned to look at him as he was being herded out of his tent. There wasn't a smile in the crowd, and the silence was unnerving, especially as his eyes rested on Hawkeye, who graced him with an especially devastating look.  
  
The dour-looking Captain stepped forward, and took the Father's hand in a firm shake. Smiling irascibly, he turned to look where there stood a half- splintered wooden cross in the dirt of the compound, drawing the chaplain's attention to it, as well.  
  
"You're on, Padre," was all he said.  
  
~ 


	94. Chapter 96: Funeral Games

It had always been one of a priest's sadder duties to preside over the laying of the dead to rest and the consolation of the living after the death of a loved one. Before coming to Korea, Mulcahy, only recently ordained, had felt awkward helping people through this time of grief. In many communities, the local priest was a well-established figure who knew each member of the congregation on a personal level, and compared with the depth of consolation offered by these individuals, Mulcahy felt his offices in this department somewhat empty. He knew that he'd grow into the part, given time... but then, Korea. There was never the time for a funeral, here. Sometimes, the far-off noise of a procession among the LIPs would reach the priest and make him lift his head, wondering who the person was, what their story was, who was presiding over the sacred offices; but as to the dead of the Americans and their allies: no. No time. Send them home, and keep on killing. Yes, funerals had always been awkward for Mulcahy, and no, he hadn't gotten much more used to it since his arrival in Korea, despite the number of deaths he'd seen.  
  
But that awkward position would have been "grace itself" in comparison with the one of a man in the act of delivering a funeral service for a his first murder victim. How was Father Mulcahy going to go about it?  
  
As carefully as he knew how.  
  
He stood over the wooden cross, which, on closer inspection, had the word "Meg" crudely inscribed on it. Mulcahy got the sudden impression that the tables had been turned, feeling the righteous indignantion he'd shown to the vampires in the camp being turned back against him, feeling about to be ill as he wavered the sign of the cross.  
  
"Friends..." he began quietly, casting a look toward Irene, who nodded and smiled in encouragement.  
  
"We come here this evening to say farewell to... um... Megan... and to place her in the hands of our Father--" he paused briefly, looking up from his prayerful attitude to see if that came out as poorly as he thought it had. Indeed, Hawkeye WAS giving him a look with an eyebrow cynically raised.  
  
"The Lord our Father," Mulcahy repeated, trying to correct himself, "That He might free her from everlasting life--" He paused, startled at his own words, "I mean, that... he might take her into eternal death... Rather... rather, I mean--"  
  
This was going less than well. The little audience started to grow antsy, on the whole.  
  
Mulcahy took a breath, "Free from everlasting DEATH... into eternal LIFE. Right. Um, and she," he tried to righten his posture and sound official, "And He took her out of this world, in whom she had put her faith and trust."  
  
Mulcahy thought that that part, at least, was about right, until he caught a pained look from Radar, and realized-- "Oh, no, that's not what I-- oh..." he sighed, and then took a deep breath.  
  
When he began to speak again, his tone was more natural, less forced, and he obviously wasn't trying to recite from the Big Book O' Catholicism.  
  
"I can't GIVE absolution to Megan. To be fair, I don't think she would have taken it if I'd tried. And now... it's too late for that. But I can take this opportunity-- this God-given opportunity-- to express my very best wishes for all of Megan's kind, that they should never give up to the forces of unholy power, that they should ever strive, as we all strive, to live the best way we know how, and that those of them who will not or can not do so..." He felt the surge of adrenaline pump up inside of him, but he let his words fall silent, the thought uncomplete. "Amen." He mumbled.  
  
"Amen," the group mumbled back, feeling the gravity of the situation.  
  
Next, the Seneschal prompted by Irene's careful nudging, went up close to the cross, and dropped a sickly-looking yellow weed of a flower from in front of the Swamp on 'the grave.'  
  
"Meg was..." He frowned, evidently not having much better luck with this than the Father, "A good Scourge. Well. She wasn't, really, actually she was rather incompetent, but she was... nice enough... I suppose... under the layer of filth."  
  
Henry came up next to Joles and tossed another flower down near the first one. "She tried to kill me, once," he offered, in hopes of finding something to say about her. "I think the only reason she didn't was because Pierce got her sloshed." A playful smirk wandered awkwardly across the Brujah's face. "I always did have better luck with women who were easy drunks..."  
  
At a severe groan from the general audience, Henry laughed, "Kidding! Kidding! Here's to you, Meg, and all the other incompetents out there. We all need to stick together."  
  
Radar came up next to Henry and smiled up at him, "Gee, that's a nice thought, sir..." he mumbled, and tossed a third flower shyly on the grave. His head lowered toward the ground, he pushed his glasses up on his nose and began to speak:  
  
"When I first met Meg it was 1945 and we were in our second year at James Peters High School together in Ottumwa, Iowa. It was the first day of our English class and there was this crow, you see, that had gone and scared me off of my textbooks I'd left under a tree near home..."  
  
Father Mulcahy, finally understanding, rolled his eyes toward the heavens in something like prayer, but less serious. He listened to Radar's tireless and fascinating rambling until his gaze fell back to earth, landing hard on the egde of camp. The Pooka's words faded into the background as his jaw gaped with wonder. The Seneschal was already staring in that direction. Henry finally caught the Father's stunned expression and turned around.  
  
He was already quite pale in the bright moonlight. Now, Father Mulcahy noted out of the corner of his eye, Henry turned a rather funny shade of dead.  
  
~ 


	95. Chapter 97: The Obligatory Angry Mob Wit...

Henry could have laughed. He MIGHT have laughed, had the scene been part of some B-horror movie he'd dragged Lorraine to when they were dating, on the off chance that the monster of the week should scare her conveniently into his arms. It was perfect. The night, the wisps of cloud just starting to pass in front of the moon, so thin that the clouds go white instead of the moon's sphere being at all dimmed, the vampires in the compound, the cross, the priest, the pooka--- and the sudden appearance of a grim crowd of LIPs in the entryway to the compound, their faces dark and serious, flickering slightly in the ruddy light cast off by the torches they carried, which also served well to glisten off of the sharp farm instruments they carried with them.  
  
"Huphyuhrkoh," a woman, stepping forward from the front of the crowd, uttered lowly. She was dressed in peasant's clothes, and Radar, spinning around from his address to the Gangrel's grave, let his jaw go slack as he recognized the woman who'd come in... now, at least, it seemed like an eternity ago... with the wounded child.  
  
The odd feeling he'd had about the case now congealed itself in the pit of his stomach as the pieces of the puzzle fell together.  
  
The seneschal took a brief moment to look upon the situation with a good amount of distance. Though having been raised as a Kindred by the Camarilla, and always having been taught the value of the masquerade, there was something about this scene that made him value it to a much greater degree. There was something about living in the modern nights that made one forget what one's kindred ancestors had to do to survive. And there was nothing quite like staring down a quite stereotypical looking 'mob with pitchforks and torches' to dispel that forgetfullness.  
  
"Huphyuhrkoh!" the woman repeated, another woman, clothed in red, coming up behind her and taking her arm supportively. The yelling mother's other arm flung out to gesture tremblingly at the crowd of various personnel assembled in the compound.  
  
And at the gesture, the crowd began to come forward.  
  
Irene was the only one to understand the woman's complaint in full, having heard several years before the fact that she would be going over to Korea once the U.S. finally got it's act together, and having begun a slow study of the language, focusing, perhaps in some areas more than others; most of the others, however, thought that the matter was fairly clear. The locals were obviously less than pleased with the new neighbors who moved into the M*A*S*H unit down the street.  
  
Their impetus for doing so, however, mattered only little to Colonel Potter, who slipped away from the little cluster and firmly settled his hat on his head as he stepped toward the approaching group, his hands outstretched, palms forward in a forbidding gesture.  
  
"Okay, hold your horses, folks, what's going on here?" he asked, calmly enough.  
  
To which gesture the crowd hovered back a bit, still looking antsy, as the woman in silks walked slowly forward, relinquishing her hold of the other Korean woman's arm. A split moment's inspection of the Colonel, and she solemnly turned her head aside toward the crowd. A man stepped forward, warily eyeing the funeral-goers as he began to address Potter.  
  
"Colonel, our people have been under attack. We require your assistance."  
  
Potter dropped his hands, his stern, commanding face melting into an expression of concern, "North Koreans?"  
  
"No, Colonel. A monster. Huphyuhrkoh." His eyes flitted back again toward the rest of the group. "We believe it hides among you. You may be unaware. Let our priestess among your people. We will show you."  
  
"Hem. Well, sorry, folks," Potter replied, looking back over to his personnel and... guests. "We don't have any hu... phew... monsters around here."  
  
"You, I believe, are mistaken, Colonel. They deceive you, or else they persuade you to protect them."  
  
Potter was about to protest, but was interrupted:  
  
"Colonel, our people are being killed. A few nights ago, a young boy was attacked. Now one of our young women has been killed. We do not wish violence. Only safety. But if you do not help us, we will destroy this camp."  
  
A moment of tense silence.  
  
Joles cast a look askance to Henry, who shrugged helplessly. He hardly remembered the incident with the boy anymore... he'd spent most of that night under the grip of the Beast, and many parts of it were growing rapidly hazy in comparison with the ones subsequent. As to the woman... all of the vampires had been in camp that night... Henry had been with the swamprats until Irene woke up, and they'd been together since the operation to awaken the seneschal. Henry was hard pressed to say what might have happened, though the possibility of another vampire lurking around camp without making itself known to the Seneschal was freaking him out a little. Joles, as well, was mildly worried: unlike Henry, however, he didn't show it.  
  
The silence was broken not by a word, but by a gesture. The speaking man turned away from the Colonel, and waved a hand. The crowd resumed its grim approach.  
  
"I, uh, think I hear the telephone ringing," Radar murmured in terror, just as Henry was saying, "Radar you'd better get inside and--"  
  
Henry cut off as the reply came before he even knew his mind was headed in that direction. He watched to make sure the kid was safely inside, then turned back to the crowd as it began to approach. His usually genial face clouded over with anger as his beast threatened to jump loose and he threatened to LET it. How dare these people come in like this and try to destroy the 4077th, the camp he'd built from nothing more than a patch of dirt into a... a... a family? How could they DARE come in here and threaten to burn down this place and all the people in it? These people damned well better learn that if they expect to come in here and make threats, they're as sure as god made little green apples going to have their throats ripped out and their bits and pieces scattered from here to kingdom come!!!  
  
In a flurry of superhuman speed Henry, enraged, ran to the swamp and picked up the 9-iron he'd been using previously, then bolted towards the group, intent on knocking their spokesman's head clear off.  
  
That fellow, startled, stood in shock as Henry raised the club over his head, fangs bared and a fierce look on his face, his unnatural anger showing through. But the priestess had her wits about her, and swung around him, deftly drawing a long curved blade from a sheath hidden among her silken robes.  
  
All this in an instant; in less than an instant later, a second, completely indistinguishable, nearly invisible blur of motion, and Irene stood between the two and had furthermore removed the makeshift weapon from Henry's hands and was holding it in a more socially acceptable manner, her hand wrapped around its neck and the end of it sticking into the ground firmly. She was about to reach around to disarms the priestess as well, but before she was able the woman brought down the weapon and it sliced deeply into the Toreador's bare, pale arm.  
  
Henry was momentarily startled by the first drawing of blood, but, further egged on by this provocation, was about to leap around the Seneschal's wife and tackle the woman with the sword when Irene, her face momentarily pained but swiftly resuming her normal smiling grace, lifted a hand to stop him with a gesture.  
  
"Steady, Henry."  
  
With that, she turned back to the woman whose sword was trailing back from her flesh. The sword pulled free and lifted into the air, preparing for another blow but making no signs of putting it yet into force.  
  
Irene bowed slightly to the woman, and the wound created by the sword began to retract the blood that was dribbling down her arm and knit itself back together. When she was intact again, she began to speak. She spoke in Korean, for the sake of her audience, but an English rendering of her statement was as follows:  
  
"The loss of your young is unfortunate. Please, join us, tonight, in our grief. We also have our young ones," she turned and patted the cooling Henry on the cheek, "to hold in check, to look after when they make mistakes. We also have our dead," she gestured to the gravesite, "to bury and mourn. We're not... as you can tell... exactly like you... but... as I hope you can also tell... we're not all so different. Join us, spend the night here, let us speak together of our losses, and console one another in our grief."  
  
Irene's soothing voice carried across the camp. Soon nearly the entirety of the Korean band had dropped their weapons, and were listening to her intently. Hawkeye, B.J., and Sidney were held in a similar state of fascianation, though they had no idea what she was talking about, and Henry had forced down his rising bile to stand peaceably and listen to her speak.  
  
Furthermore, several drowsy nurses and non-coms had poked their heads out of their respective tents and were equally entranced.  
  
A Toreador can be a VERY shiny thing, at times. Father Mulcahy knew this only too well, and so was able to steel himself against what he recognized as the second attack upon his emotional state. He remained unaffected, nearly alone among everybody present, yet, staring around, was nonetheless awed at the number of people bending to the vampire woman's will.  
  
Disturbed as he was by the process, he had to admit it was effective. Within moments, the stunned silence began to fade into murmurings, and the murmurings into conversations, the conversations into rough communication between the locals and personnel.  
  
Food was prepared specially for the event, even a little bit better fare than normal, and it was shared by all who could still partake in it. Alcohol, both local and that supplied from the good old US of A, was imbibed in fair quantities, and Father Mulcahy looked on with a faint smile as some of the Koreans attempted to teach a pair of mildly swamped swamprats some traditional funeral songs, to some little success.  
  
Out of the corner of his vision, of a sudden, a hideous visage; the priest's heart skipped a beat and he stood stock upright before his vision returned to its mundane state and he saw that it was just Radar, scurrying out of the offices, looking this way and that until his eyes settled on Henry, who was using Irene and a system of complicated, fumbling hand gestures to try to communicate with some local indigenous fishermen about some good spots he'd found nearby in the last few months.  
  
Mulcahy stepped closer, just close enough to hear the end of the conversation without seeming to be eavesdropping.  
  
"And then last month our company clerk -- uh, that's Radar, he's probably around here some--"  
  
"Here, sir. Sir? No, sir, that was in July. Sir?"  
  
"Radar, was that last month we found that-- oh. Yes, Radar? What is it?"  
  
Radar looked up, breathlessly. "It's Mrs. Colonel, your wife, sir."  
  
Henry stopped, stunned.  
  
"On the phone, sir." Radar added. "Better hurry, the line's faint."  
  
"Faint--" Henry stammered witlessly.  
  
"Yeah, or the operator dropped a grape nehi on the telephone wire."  
  
Henry shook off the surprise of the news, and was about to make a break for the office when he stopped, sensing the Seneschal's eyes on his back. He turned around, meeting the warning gaze. The two kindred stared at each other.  
  
Joles finally, reluctantly, nodded.  
  
"Go talk to her."  
  
~ 


	96. Chapter 98: Henry's Decision

Henry Blake was nearly trembling as he sat down in his old office chair once more, nearly having a suspicion that it was going to explode as it had on one previous occasion. He stared at the phone, then quickly picked it up and lifted it to his ear.  
  
"Lorraine, honey, it's me, Henry!" he blurted out.  
  
"Oh. Yes, please, operator, put it through."  
  
Wildly excited and nearly panicking, Henry's heart began to beat again, unsteadily, and he allowed himself to start breathing again to try and stabilize it. As concerned his wife, he'd had a private discussion with the Seneschal the previous night before things got hairy. As Joles outlined, he had several options where she was concerned. He could tell her everything; upon which point it would be necessary to either embrace her, ghoul her, or kill her. The same, of course, going for the children. The last of these three options, of course, being completely out of the question, the first two weighed heavily on that end of the scale. On the other hand, of course, he could tell her nothing. And disappear from her life for the rest of... for the rest of... whatever rest was left to him, at this point. Immortality hovered over Henry like a specter as he tried to look into an interminable future of trying to stop his beast from making him beat people's brains in with golf clubs. He spun his chair around to face the wall, the phone cord becoming taut in a circle around it. His harried face suddenly broke into his normal, warm, goofy grin.  
  
"Lorraine! Yes, it's me!" Even as he said it, he knew this would be the last time he'd ever speak to her. "Yes, honey, I know what you heard, it's-- don't cry, Lorraine, it was all a misunderstanding, I'm fine! Just-- just fine. There was... a little trouble with the plane, and you know army intelligence, right? A couterdiction in terms... oh, somewhere, someone got the wires crossed and there were paper trails to clean up and... oh, you don't want to hear all about it."  
  
"Yeah, honey, no, don't worry about calling mom and dad, I'll call them up myself from here before I go... yeah, honey, I'm still coming home... I'll probably be leaving... tomorrow, tomorrow night, latest. Look, I... I probably won't get to ring you up again before I go, so if you don't hear from me for a week or so, don't... don't panic, I'm sure I'm on my way... what?"  
  
"What color do I want the living room sofa in?"  
  
"Oh, jeez, Lorraine, I don't know, just pick whatever you..."  
  
"Why don't you let Andrew decide, he's still man of the house while I'm--"  
  
"He wants WHAT color?"  
  
"Oh, fine, fine, Lorraine, well, why not that light green that matches the curtains?"  
  
"Okay. Then it's settled."  
  
"Yeah, Lorraine, it'll be great to be back. Lorraine?"  
  
"Know I love you... no matter what... okay?" Unspoken: 'Enough to never want you to find out that creatures like me exist.'  
  
"Okay. Okay. Yeah. I'll see you soon."  
  
"Bye."  
  
Henry held the phone tightly against his ear as he heard his wife's last farewell, the snap of the line disconnecting, and then static.  
  
He slowly turned back around, putting down the receiver and, purely out of habit, reaching for the key to his liquor cabinet. It wasn't there, of course.  
  
Looking up, he noticed the audience that had accrued in the doorway. Radar looked down at the ground, his wool cap's brim covering the top of his face. Hawkeye looked straight at Henry, not bothering to clear his eyes of the tears accumulating there, and downed a martini-glass of homemade gin like it was the only thing keeping him alive.  
  
~ 


	97. Chapter 99: Back To Normal: Sort Of

Henry hardly remembered vacating the chair, hardly recalled moving over to the corner of his old office. He vaguely thought that Radar had said something to him, and then had left. He didn't remember Hawkeye leaving. He thought that Irene appeared at one point and had asked him a question to which he had nodded in reply, but he couldn't quite remember what it was. He was stunned beyond much reason. When he came back to the conscious world, Irene was sitting in his -- that is to say, Colonel Potter's -- chair.  
  
When Henry looked at her, she looked back, and the edge of his vest fluttered in a cold gust of wind. She smiled supportively and then spoke into that dreadful telephone, "Yes, Sparky, please, put me through to the Prince."  
  
Things were going back to normal, Henry couldn't help thinking. Normal? This is normal? The phones were working again, but Camarilla business was being taken care of over them. Soon the ambulances would come, the blood would flow, and the vampires would feed easily from the carnage of war.  
  
"Sir? Irene Traveneau. I'm sorry, my husband is busy at the moment-- yes, yes we've nearly got things wrapped up here at the M*A*S*H unit, mild Masq breach, nothing that couldn't be easily salvaged."  
  
Henry grew more attentive. He had never before heard a lie so convincingly told that he almost believed it even though he was in on it being a falsehood.  
  
"Yes, thank you, sir. A couple of things, sir-- Maggie's gone and run off somewhere. No, I don't know. You know the Gangrel, sir... my husband DID try to te-- yes, well, anyway, we needn't go into it here, I would look into a replacement scourge. Have you had any luck in finding Hilson? No? Well, that's the second thing, sir, we've picked up traces of what could be another kindred in the area. Perhaps Hilson and his followers, yes, sir. The childe? Yes, we've got him." She glanced up at Henry and smiled. "No, no sir, he's just fine. A few, but we can't really blame him, after what the poor fellow's been through."  
  
Henry blushed, the blood still rushing through his system from the terror of the phone call home. Oh, yes. The young woman... a mystery.  
  
"Yes, well, sir, I think we should find a new scourge to come investigate. The Sheriff's still off checking Hilson's usual haunts, yes? Alright. We're nearly done here, and then we'll take Henry -- the childe -- and go back to HQ. Probably tomorrow, barring further incident."  
  
Probably tomorrow, barring further incident. Henry was leaving. One more time. He could only hope this trip would be a bit smoother.  
  
Pushing open the office doors, he stepped into the outer office as he'd done so many times before. But instead of the normal sight of Radar leaning over the desk with a comic book propped up on the typewriter, he saw Sparky perched on the desk's edge, listening quietly in on the conversation between the Seneschal's wife and the prince. On the far side of the room, Majors Burns and Houlihan sat on Radar's bunk, faced by Joles, who was sitting on the desk chair, his hands folded seriously.  
  
It had come out of the woodwork that the two majors had leaked to the LIPs about the Kindred presence here at the camp, and had whipped them up into a group ready to destroy the unit entirely with a few choice tales of what was going on within the 4077th's walls. Joles had volunteered to put in some extra hours of a kind of selective surgery he was more accustomed to, nowadays.  
  
"Now Major Burns, why did you bring the locals to the camp?"  
  
"What locals?"  
  
"Very good. Now, Major Houlihan, is there any such thing as a vampire?"  
  
"Of course not."  
  
"Wonderful."  
  
Henry shivered a bit and quickly headed out the main doors of the office complex, into the compound. As he walked outside there was something final about his pace, some feeling like he was leaving something behind forever. When he'd left the 4077th the first time, on the occasion of his transfer to Tokyo, he was ready to go, ready to get out of this hellhole and away from the people in it. It was only after he'd gone did he realize how much some of the folks her meant to him. The second time he'd left, he knew he'd be leaving a part of himself with each and every person in this camp, even those two boneheads who were currently getting their brains expertly carved by the Seneschal. Now-- now he was leaving more than he could say. Not only was he leaving the last remnants of his mortal existence, he was leaving the people who'd taken him in and helped him through the change more than Irene or Joles could ever have done. His heart still beat faintly, though he didn't force it any further, the use of the blood wearying him a bit in conjunction with the late, nearly early, hour.  
  
He paused after walking a few steps into the compound, and smiled. A familiar feeling hounded at his heels, and it cheered him. For the heck of it, he didn't turn around, instead simply tucking his hands casually behind his back and lightly calling, "Rad--"  
  
"Yes sir?" the familiar face was there waiting for him when the Brujah turned his head to the side.  
  
Henry continued to smile, his voice faint, faraway, and dream-like, as though repeating something he'd repeated half a million times out of pure fondness for its sound. "You needed something, Radar?"  
  
"I heard you were leaving tonight, Colonel...." Radar trailed off.  
  
Henry started to walk, Radar keeping at his elbow the whole time. "Tomorrow, probably," he said.  
  
As one their heads tilted up to the horizon, which was turning grey.  
  
"Sun's gonna be up soon, sir." Radar offered, managing to sound informative and helpless at the same time.  
  
"We've got time, Radar," Henry replied huskily. He leaned down and picked up a fistful of pebbles, tossing them short distances as they continued to walk along the compound.  
  
"What's new, Radar?" Henry sighed.  
  
"Oh, you know, sir. Same old, same old." Radar lied. Henry smiled.  
  
"I seem to remember," Henry started thoughtfully, turning his shoulders toward the Pooka clerk and tilting his head downward, "That we were making some plans for a reunion... you know... when this whole thing's over."  
  
Radar grinned, beaming. "I think we'd decided on the third Sunday, the month after the war ends."  
  
Henry turned his eyes back to the horizon. He nodded slowly. "Sounds good, Radar."  
  
Radar's eyes widened. "You mean it, sir?"  
  
Henry grinned, "Yeah, Radar, I mean it."  
  
Radar's smile turned slightly impish; unable to hold back his Pookine instincts, he queried, "Can you still come to lunch?"  
  
Henry laughed, and clapped Radar's shoulder lightly, giving him a slight hug.  
  
"You crazy monkey!"  
  
~ 


	98. Chapter 100: Some Are Born To Banality, ...

"Good-- g'night, Colonel!" Radar yelled once more in the VIP tent's general direction, then turned, his face becoming illuminated in the camp's lamplight, eyes growing wide with the pain that overtook him, then squinting at the bright light that suddenly shone in his eyes.  
  
Clutching his stomach and lurching a bit as he walked, Radar stumbled back across the compound and flopped out in the inviting arms of the rickety old lawn chair.  
  
"You, too." Radar mumbled in some sort of comment to the chair's embrace. Holy cow, that was unpleasant! The cold sickness gnawed at his shoulder, where the contact with the corpse had been longest, but it immediately bore its way down to the pit of his belly and made him feel as nauseated as he's ever been. He squeezed his eyes shut against the slight lightening of the sky, half hoping that the morning sun would begin to warm him soon, half hoping that the sunrise would just destroy him like it would one of the vampires, and make all this ache go away.  
  
At Ban's admonitory chirrup, he picked off his glasses and hung them on the back of the lawn char, really not wanting to hear it, right now. The chimerae were right, of course... Colonel Blake had really become rather a drain on Radar's fae health. But it was the last thing the stubborn little changeling would admit.  
  
To say that Radar thought of Colonel Blake as a friend would be the understatement of the century. How could Colonel Blake be behind all this pain, vampire or not? It didn't make any sense! He'd much prefer to believe that the source of all the trouble was someone a little bit more obvious: the most dreary... grey... pragmatic... BORING mortal in the entire camp! Yep, none other than the font of all banality himself, Major Fr---  
  
Radar shuddered in the midst of these thoughts, an oppressive cold weighing down on his already cold and sore dreaming.  
  
"Gold brick!" Frank snorted. Radar opened a bleary eye.  
  
"Hmph! Imagine! I go on R&R for one week, and we've got insignificant little non-com-poops camping outside our door waiting for a discharge so they can go running home to mommy!"  
  
Radar's other eye opened slowly, and he tried to speak, his forehead knotted up in pre-emptive anguish as, even without the help of Bantelhopp, he saw where this was going. But his quick tongue had been sufficiently slowed so as to let him be cut off before he even uttered a syllable.  
  
Radar's now-opened eyes crossed as Frank leaned down and stuck his smirking face in his, and kept at him:  
  
"Well, I'll tell you right now, mister, I don't believe it for a minute! You might be able to fool those two idiots inside, but this is one idiot that's no fool, no sirree!"  
  
Frank's eyes shifted left and right as he tried to re-think that last statement, but he finally gave up and just kept ranting.  
  
"You're making it all up!"  
  
Radar squirmed as the sheer force of Frank's disbelief cut him to the bone as surely as any knife.  
  
"It's all a lie!"  
  
Radar whimpered softly as the pain intruded further.  
  
"And if you think that that little act is going to get an ounce of pity out of me, mister, you've got another think coming!"  
  
The Swamp door opened. Whether it was opening from the outside or from the inside, Radar couldn't tell, having fainted before the fact could fully register.  
  
~ 


	99. Chapter 101: Piercing The Veil, parts A ...

"Frank, if you don't mind keeping the war down a little, some of us are trying to-- Christ, Frank!" Hawkeye interrupted himself as he caught sight of their company clerk, supine and in obvious pain, and he shoved the ferret-faced man aside to come to the changeling's aid.  
  
"Frank, what did you do to him!?" Hawkeye demanded, his hollering extracting a bleary B.J. from the swamp's door, his toothbrush still hanging from his mouth, being moved up and down in slow circular patterns.  
  
"Shows how much you two know!" Frank sneered, "He's faking it!"  
  
Having surmised from this one remark from their third bunkmate's lipless mouth the severity of the situation, B.J. became lucid enough to make a long-legged stride over the chair and crouch on the other side, "What's wrong with him, Hawk?"  
  
Hawkeye stood up and glowered in Frank's direction. In the background, B.J., clenching his toothbrush in his teeth, started taking what vital statistics he could without the proper equipment.  
  
"It's Frank," Hawkeye replied to B.J., staring into the Major's face as he did so, "He's been boring people to death again. Frank, why don't you do us all a favor and take a nice long stroll-- to North Korea! They'll see what we have to put up with back here, and decide to give up the torture business! They just can't compare with you, Frank! You're anesthetic, personified! Get out of here, Frank, before the whole camp does the Rip Van Winkle! Go take a walk in a mine field or something!"  
  
"Hawk-- Hawk?" B.J. tried to cut in.  
  
"Yeah, what is it, Beej?" Hawkeye spun around from his tirade and was once more at Radar's side, across from B.J. B.J. looked across at him helplessly, and placed the Pooka's hand, which he'd been feeling for a pulse, down on his chest. Hawkeye felt a pang of terror.  
  
"Is he--"  
  
"Asleep." B.J. shrugged. "Hawk, Frank's right. There's nothing wrong with him."  
  
~  
  
A chimeric wail of mourning filled the post operative ward as the dawn wore away towards morning. The vampires having been quarantined in the VIP tent, the wyrm taint was concentrated in that area, and outside, throughout the camp, the animals that had been freed from the zoo stopped to listen. Here and there in the Korean village nearby a baby began to cry long and hard. The dogs howled, or, variously, whimpered and hid, bowing their heads. The turtle pulled itself inside its shell.  
  
Hawkeye wasn't sure how the teddy bear had gotten inside the building; but he was glad it had, and happy with whoever had had the foresight to go fetch it here. He didn't hear the screaming; but he felt it, he felt that there was something wrong, and his head bowed over Radar's bedside as he tried to think of what it was.  
  
Meanwhile, on a plane of existence slightly off kilter from the one in which Hawkeye was sitting, Bantelhopp sat pensively between the dark- sprouting horns of the young, mauled sheep. Qotenmatch sat up on the blankets, his legs crossed, his eyes shut, chanting in a tongue more ancient than man.  
  
Bantelhopp's head craned one hundred and sixty degrees, and tilted up, his beak parted by his little black tongue in a curious gesture as he regarded Hawkeye, and began to sing.  
  
"Dear Qotenmatch, the time is near,  
  
The culmination of our fear,  
  
Autumn grins from ear to ear,  
  
And even corpses feel our tears.  
  
Banality encroaches.  
  
Our young ward feels its presence,  
  
Though we shall do all for him that we can.  
  
In this man's deep blue eyes I note  
  
A quality beyond man's rote.  
  
And you could, if you chose, promote  
  
These eyes to Dreams, past mortal moats.  
  
Banality encroaches.  
  
Shall this man be our saviour?  
  
He could, if you did for him what you can."  
  
Nearby, and even closer than before, though still too far away for most, the music reached the ears of the worried doctor, who began to hum a tune he seemed to know by heart without ever having heard it before.  
  
At a soft voice murmuring, "Doctor...? Hawkeye?" he shook himself awake and took the clipboard from the nurse, who explained, "The tests you wanted."  
  
Hawkeye nodded. A 'thank you' tried to escape his throat, but failed. He looked at the sheet of paper for a moment. He flipped it over to look at its backside, expecting there to be more. There wasn't.  
  
"My Bantelhopp, don't ask me this,  
  
By Autumn's Nip and Corpse's Kiss,  
  
Our Ward's surviving hope of bliss  
  
To neglect now, and be remiss.  
  
Banality encroaches.  
  
He needs all my attention.  
  
A miracle remains our only chance."  
  
Frustrated and tired, Hawkeye tossed the lab sheet, on which, of course, everything and everything else checked out normal, on the empty cot behind him and looked over Radar to the sedated Klinger further down the row, "You've probably got a better idea what's going on than I do."  
  
"I doubt that," a voice so commonsensical as to only be able to belong to the demi-official camp psychologist spoke behind him. Hawkeye turned to see Sydney pick up the discarded medical chart and sit down on the edge of the bed. "I doubt he's got a very good idea of anything at this point. Complete withdrawal from reality."  
  
"That bad?" Hawkeye murmured, looking across to the other patient, watching the troubled expressions that marred the usually comical face.  
  
"I don't think he hears what I'm saying to him. He hears-- something-- but what? I couldn't tell you. Not yet." Sidney's voice trailed off. When Hawkeye turned around he was examining the medical form he'd found with a furrowed forehead.  
  
Hawkeye smirked and removed the sheet from Dr. Freedman's hands, turning it around and reinserting it with the corrected orientation. "You've been in psychology too long, Sid."  
  
Sidney squinted at the sheet. "Not long enough to see anything odd about these stats. Why the bed rest, Hawk?"  
  
Hawkeye snorted undignifiedly, and turned back to look Radar over once more, as he'd been doing for the last three hours. Everything looked, worked, acted just fine. All the numbers were right, but it was just... so... wrong...  
  
"Do you always believe everything you see, Sid?"  
  
"I try to; it's espousing that kind of philosophy that keeps me in business. Hazard of the trade, I suppose."  
  
Hawkeye looked down to the floor, chortling softly. "Hazard of the trade," he repeated sardonically, shaking his head.  
  
Sidney let a silent moment pass before speaking up again. "You know, if you wanted to talk to someone with a specialty in dealing with the less tangible--"  
  
"No." Hawkeye intercepted the notion, snapping his neck up and looking back over his shoulder toward Sidney. "I am /not/ putting Radar in the care of Father John Patrick Francis "Slaughterhouse" Mul--" Hawkeye had a feeling he'd put his foot in it by the steady look Sidney was shooting across the room. He didn't have to turn his head to know that the Hunter's eyes were fixed, if you will, dead on him.  
  
~ 


	100. Chapter 102: Interlude: A Mystery

When Hawkeye turned to confront his confronter, however, he found no disapproving stare, no frown, not even a sad look. The priest had turned away as Hawkeye stopped speaking, and was settling himself near the only patient in the post-op who was awake at the moment.  
  
"Good morning, Private Tillman. How are you feeling?" He removed his hat and leaned forward in an attentive posture.  
  
"Oh, just fine, Doc. Err... sir. Father." He spotted the cross on Mulcahy's collar. "Hey, you know your insignia's broken?" He pointed at the equal-armed cross the Hunter had donned. This man wasn't just awake, as Hawkeye began to notice from across the way. He was positively radiating life and activity.  
  
Mulcahy chuckled, "Yes, I know." He glanced at the ceiling with a knowing smile, "He knows what I mean. I'm glad to know you're doing well. You were pretty beat up, coming in here, you know? We were worried. But you look like you're pulling through it just fine."  
  
Hawkeye stood up. Mulcahy wasn't kidding. Hawkeye had been so caught up in everything happening around here, he'd had little attention for the goings-on here in post-op, slow as things were, and as well as the nurses and, he shuddered to think, Frank Burns, had been taking care of the cases that were still here. But this-- this wasn't right. As the priest spoke, the memories re-assembled themselves. This kid had been a wreck. This kid shouldn't be /conscious/ yet, much less sitting up and 'feeling fine.'  
  
"Yeah, I remember... Those snipers came right out of nowhere. I thought I was a goner! Evidently," he chuckled, "I wasn't the only one with that opinion. Oh, hey, Father?"  
  
"Yes, my son?"  
  
"Could I, you know," Mulcahy quirked a brow as he saw a faint blush come over the slight young man's face, and he began to mentally prepare to take confession before the clause was ended: "Talk to the doctor who fixed me up?" The priest halted himself mid-thought.  
  
"Excuse me?"  
  
"I'd just like to meet him-- thank him and all that, you know?"  
  
"Oh. Yes, of-- of course." Mulcahy sputtered, looking out the window briefly and catching the glint of sunlight on a reddened, falling leaf. "I'm afraid he's asleep right now."  
  
No, no, shouldn't be up, shouldn't be fine... certainly shouldn't be talking. Hawkeye rolled the case around in his mind as far as he could recall it. "Asleep right now..." Hawkeye mumbled to himself before a shock of inspiration caused his curiously stooped posture to straighten. "Henry," he concluded in a whisper. That kid he'd been working on when-- Hawkeye should have known, the moment he'd noticed the oddity, that it would have had something to do with him.  
  
The Private frowned, and bit at his lower lip anxiously, making himself look younger than ever, the very essence of a child waiting with impatience for Christmas to come. "Can't you wake him up?"  
  
"Uh-- no, I -- I don't think I should, you see, uh--" Mulcahy faltered for words, lying just not his style.  
  
"He just got out of surgery." Hawkeye cut in, having moved over to the bed frame and lifted up the clipboard hanging there, proving to himself that this was, in fact, the same patient. He pointed with the tail end of the pen he held over to the bed in which Radar was sleeping, "See that guy over there? Made your wounds look like scratches. Henry's been up all night with him. Want me to get him a message from you, when he wakes up?"  
  
Private Tillman shifted under his blankets, his face registering the first trace of discomfort Hawkeye or Mulcahy had seen on him, and, even that, not a look of physical pain so much as a look of mild irritation mingled with embarrassment. "No, nevermind," he spoke curtly, and then retreated under the covers, turning his face aside in a motion decidedly connotative of the fact that the conversation was at an end.  
  
~ 


	101. Chapter 103: Interlude: The Right Reaso...

Hawkeye Pierce stood speechless a moment over both the Private's recovery and his odd mood swings. When he looked up again, he found himself the object of the intense, unsettling scrutiny of the Hunter-Priest.  
  
It was strange. On the surface, it seemed as though of all the people in the camp affected by this rash of supernatural activity, Father Mulcahy had changed the least. He didn't require blood for daily sustenance; the sight of iron didn't cause him to faint with fear. But in that look he had there was a complete reversal of man. Those qualities which had heretofore been predominant: awkwardness, uncertainty, that constant searching for a place to be useful and needed; all these were pushed to the background. Emerging in the forefront were qualities Hawkeye had seen in the priest from time to time, but which had always disappeared before they warranted more than a passing quip and to be forgotten: a previously arcane sureness of spirit that Hawkeye could be appreciative of when he failed to remember its source. And its result.  
  
Hawkeye turned his head, unable to stand it for long. He was halfway back across the ward when, "Hawkeye?" sounded behind him.  
  
He paused, then continued, not looking back, taking long, slow steps back to the foot of the bed in which the Pooka seemed to have stabilized a bit. "What?"  
  
The animosity wasn't lost on Father Mulcahy, but he steadily approached Hawkeye's side, anyway. "What really happened to him?" he asked, looking down over the creature with his forehead slightly furrowed in worry, knowing full well by now to recognize the shaggy monster as their sometime dependable, oftentimes endearing company clerk.  
  
"Why don't you just leave him alone, Father, you've done enough already."  
  
"Hawkeye... I'm only trying to help."  
  
"Help him, huh? That's a laugh. You've made it only too clear you'd just as soon see Radar--" His voice clogged up around the name of his archnemesis: Death. But the sentiment was clear.  
  
"Hawkeye, I would never--"  
  
"You would never. You would never? You already did, remember? Meg, short cute kid who was through here a while ago? Remember her?"  
  
"Short cute kid who was over half a century old? Hawkeye, there are reasons--"  
  
"Colonel Potter's over half a century old; should you off him, too, while you're at it?"  
  
"That's not what I meant, and you know it. Look, Radar's getting better..."  
  
"You call THAT getting better?"  
  
"Meg was completely unrepentant."  
  
"Well so are half the people in this camp! Including yours truly."  
  
"Radar saved you. After I asked him to."  
  
Silence. Father Mulcahy had evidently hit upon a nerve. He continued.  
  
"Had Meg been in Radar's place... had she stolen a part of you... a part of your soul away to feed on... Hawkeye, I'm certain I wouldn't have been able to talk her back out of it, to make her help you back to life, like Radar did. And yes, the answer is yes, if I had found Radar to be of similar spirit... I would have..." He trailed off, the thought of how easy it would have been lingering with him, but the words nearly too horrible to speak.  
  
But he steeled himself. "I would have killed him." He lifted his chin firmly, his eyes sparking behind his glasses. "And if you disapprove of that, Hawkeye... well, if I only did my job to meet with your approval, I wouldn't be doing it for the right reasons."  
  
Hawkeye Pierce cursed the priest, then, like he'd never cursed anything before. Not outwardly, not in words, but a genuine appeal to whatever powers might be out there that Father Mulcahy and all the goddamned sense he made be cursed forever.  
  
Outwardly, he looked up, and tried to smile. "They're human, Father. Remember that. And humans are flawed. All humans... even those who have angels whispering in their ears."  
  
The goat bleated and Father Mulcahy turned his head to one side a fraction of an inch as he felt the afterimage of a cool tongue in his ear. He straightened his head again, however, and the doctor and the priest stared each other full in the eyes. Mutual points taken. They turned to the task at hand.  
  
"What really happened to him?" Mulcahy started over.  
  
"I don't know. I found him outside the swamp... Frank was yelling at him and he was nearly passed out, obviously in pain... but I can't see anything... physically... wrong with him."  
  
Mulcahy looked down, focusing his vision back onto the monsterous visage. On closer inspection, a long, ovine ear appeared to be slightly torn. The frothing at the monster's mouth seemed to be tinged pink, and a dribble of red ran down from one of its -- his, Father Mulcahy corrected himself -- nostrils. The bear-thing seemed to be busy with some sort of activity, while the dragon-bird, "Bantelhopp-- Qotenmatch--" Mulcahy muttered out loud, recalling the names he'd heard once, looked up to him and squawked a painful-sounding note.  
  
"Gesundheit..." Hawkeye replied slowly, confused.  
  
Mulcahy looked up and blinked heavily once, then lightly a few times. "Oh. No, the uh... little beasts there..." he pointed.  
  
"He definately seems to be in pain, but... not any physical pain, a kind of pain to the creature that lies inside him."  
  
Radar gritted his teeth together and groaned aloud, his arms flying up to cling to his teddy bear. Hawkeye immediately leapt into action, pushing Father Mulcahy back and positioning himself between the Hunter and the Changeling.  
  
"What did you do to him?" He demanded angrily.  
  
"I-- I don't know! Nothing!" He looked over Hawkeye's shoulder toward the ailing Radar with such a look of concern that Hawkeye couldn't accuse him any further. He sighed and patted Father Mulcahy's shoulder, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to yell." He bit his lower lip and looked across the ward to Private Tillman, who was peeking over furtively. "We should take Radar into the O.R... we probably don't want to be caught with our supernatural pants down." He nodded over in Tillman's direction.  
  
"I'll go get a corpsman..." Mulcahy nodded, and he ran off.  
  
Hawkeye headed towards the familiar doors to the O.R., where Sidney had taken up post during the conference with the Private, and had remained throughout the other confrontation.  
  
"You okay, Hawk?"  
  
"Yeah. Yeah, I'll be fine."  
  
~ 


	102. Chapter 104: Interlude: An Itch To Scrat...

Sparky sat munching distastefully on a mouthful of powdered eggs. He wondered a bit at the sudden flurry of activity around that big building over there. He knew no new casualties had come in-- so why did the chaplain just run out of there and hustle back after two corpsmen carrying a litter?  
  
He grabbed a bit of the WWII surplus toast and was chewing on it as he approached the screen wall of the mess tent and peered out of it.  
  
"What the heck's going on over there?" he mumbled to himself; perhaps to the cook as well. He was about to go over and check it out, that priest, of course, a suspicious figure in his mind, but he found that he didn't have to; the moment he had put away his tray and was heading out one half of the double doors, the other door opened the opposite way and Father Mulcahy came running in, not so much as offering a passing greeting as he headed for the coffee dispenser and poured himself a mugfull with an expert hand, chugging down half of it before looking up.  
  
"Oh, Sparky. Good morning." He stated hesitantly, filling up the mug again, his brain sending him messages of urgent need for some kind of stimulation.  
  
Sparky squinted. "Hey, Padre, you alright? What's going on over there?"  
  
"Just fine, thank you, Sparky," Mulcahy lied a bit, swallowing down the dregs of the mug in earnest, as though all the energy must be contained in the little gritty bits at the bottom.  
  
"Just fine?" Igor peered incredulously, "He's been chugging that grog for the last two days straight," he informed Sparky, then turned to the priest, "Padre, if you don't start to slow down on that stuff, your blood tests will start coming back 'Fine Ground.'"  
  
Sparky looked on with wondering eyes for a while, then laughed heartily, the cook's joke helping him to put two and two together. "Hey, Father, it's no use, you know."  
  
Mulcahy, irked a little at the needling, turned simply confused at the comment. "No use?" he asked.  
  
"The coffee. I tried it, too. Pop, coffee... I even went on pep pills for a few days."  
  
Mulcahy shuddered, somehow knowing that this was going in a direction he wasn't going to like... he could feel it. But, at the same time, he needed to know... needed to ask, "What in Heaven's name are you talking about, Sparky?"  
  
Sparky nodded his head sagely. "Uh-huh. A little testy. You haven't gotten your fix in a few days, have you? I know the signs... I've been there, Padre." He grinned, a little conspiratorial smile between men. "That ol' Vitae buzz is just irreplacable, huh?"  
  
The Hunter's heart fell to the bottom of his feet. Oh, yeah. There it was. That interminable need he couldn't quite put a name on sat before him as clear as day-- as dark as night. That blood. He nearly salivated at the thought of it. He coughed, clearing his throat as he poured another cup of horribly depressingly unfulfilling coffee. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Sparky."  
  
Sparky smiled jovially. "Uh-huh." He replied. "Well, anyway," he began, as if about to change the topic, wandering in the direction of the double doors again. As he passed Father Mulcahy he muttered in low tones, "I got some back in my gear if you wanna stop by." Mulcahy was breathless; he squeezed his eyes shut as he tried to slough off the nearly overwhelming urge to take Sparky up on his offer.  
  
He exhaled deeply as Sparky broke the tension of the moment by continuing, aloud, as he bent double and peered back toward the operating theater, "So, what's going on over there?"  
  
~ 


	103. Chapter 105: Piercing The Veil, parts C...

"He's a what? Geez, and to think I talked to him over the horn so often and never thought--"  
  
"No, no, that's not what I meant. Fairy as in fairy ring... fairy dust... fairy tales. You know? Little flying things. Except... uh... Radar doesn't fly." Hawkeye looked from Sparky to Father Mulcahy, his eyes widening along with a comical shrug of his shoulders. "As far as I know," he amended.  
  
"So, what, now..." Sparky frowned, scooting between the priest and doctor. His eyes trailed over his friend's supine face and came to rest on Sidney, standing on the other side of the room. "He's got some kind of fairy disease?"  
  
Strange. These words, so bluntly stated, left Pierce without correction. Out of habit he tried to re-state the condition in more precise terms, used to dealing with worried friends and relatives who only had a vague grasp of what was going on. Now, the doctor himself found himself with only a notion, all his years of practice more or less out the window. All he could reply was, "Well... yeah, we think so."  
  
Sparky turned around to look at Pierce distressedly, obviously expecting some sort of explanation as much as Hawkeye had intended on giving one. He dampened his lips a second before turning back to Radar.  
  
"Hey, hey Radar, it's Sparky."  
  
"Come in, Radar," Hawkeye added in a low, hopeful mutter, falling back to put a hand on Mulcahy's shoulder and give him an appreciative nod, silently thanking him for bringing Sparky with him.  
  
A nod of understanding was his reply, and the short phrase, "Radar needs all the friends he has, right now."  
  
All eyes focused back on the center of the room, the operating gurney that Radar was lying on, the Malkavian ghoul leaning over him with a worried look. "Hey Radar, old buddy... can you hear me?"  
  
A connection. Semi-automatic, not quite lucid, but there. "Yeah, Sparky you got those... you got those blankets we need?" Radar mumbled dozily through his unconscious state.  
  
In a moment, the rest of the men in the room clustered close around, attentive to the sign of life.  
  
Sparky, flustered: "Um, not yet, Radar, still working on those... you know the army keeps its eye on the calendar, won't give 'em out two minutes before the manual says they're needed."  
  
Radar chuckled wanly, "Oh. Yeah. Well, can you dig some of last winter's up? We'd... we'd have ours, still, but we traded 'em in for mosquito netting, 'cause... 'cause we couldn't get our hands on any of that, either. The Army doesn't understand. They don't understand the changing of the seasons. They don't get that before the Winter comes the Fall, and the Autumn times can be just as cold as when there's nothing at all 'cause... 'cause you're there to see it. And when the winter comes, we'll all be gone."  
  
By this time, of course, the rest of the inhabitants of the O.R. had gathered around. Their mouths hung open in wonder at what they were hearing. One and all had the same thought in mind. Sparky vocalized it first. "You mean, the war will be over before Winter?"  
  
A tear seeped from the corner of Radar's eye. "Yeah. It'll all be over by Winter." Straight from the Pooka's mouth.  
  
Hawkeye stood up, dazzled by the good news coming in over the Radar. "Radar, I could kiss you, you know."  
  
The tear in one eye was matched by a tear in the other.  
  
Hawkeye frowned. "I didn't know I was that bad a kisser."  
  
Sparky leaned down, "Hey, Radar... what's the matter? If we're going home before Winter... you should be happy! Just think... meals that are a little younger than we are..."  
  
"Not having bombs exploding around your house..." Sidney chimed in.  
  
Mulcahy nodded, "To be back among the loved ones you left behind."  
  
Hawkeye, struck by a thought, grinned, unable to restrain the facial expression until nearly all of his teeth were showing. "Christmas."  
  
The one word didn't have any desire or pressing need to be explained. It threw the rest of the group for a loop, and, as sentiments of the holiday are wonted to effect, their respective hearts melted with yearning for what each of them remembered best. Hams and stuffings, presents and family, decorations, Christmas carols, and, of course, Santa Claus coming down the chimney late at night while all the people are asleep, his foreign, exotic furs telling of travels to places beyond the reach of man, where demonic madmen spit on their creations in coarse blessing for a little horse made so as to be unrelentingly linear and at the same time realer than any blurring black-and-white flicker across the new TV. A lashing of a whip tipped with tinkling bells lingered in their memories and each one turned away in confusion, wondering just where they'd come up with such a strange image.  
  
And they were all taking in breaths to turn back to one another and comment on what they each just thought they'd seen-- when they stopped short, again. Sparky groped out into the air until his hand caught a stool, and he dragged it over to sit down on. Father Mulcahy crossed himself, blinking to make sure this wasn't a new manifestation of his enhanced awareness.  
  
Sidney, for once, was shaken. He looked up across the table to Hawkeye, who was the only one to take the transformation more or less in stride, and to smile at the little bundle of white fluffy fleece that was worming its way out of a Corporal's uniform.  
  
"Radar! You're feeling better."  
  
~  
  
"Holy Moly..." Sparky uttered.  
  
In two beats of a lamb's tail the little creature was free, kicking a weak hind leg out behind to try to free it from a clinging collar. It promptly settled down, sitting back to back with the stuffed bear in a priceless attitude. It swiveled its head this way and that before focusing its astigmatic gaze in Hawkeye's direction and bleating politely. Widening its forehooves, it leaned down and nudged the glasses that sat upside-down on the cot.  
  
"Huh?" Hawkeye asked, as if Radar could reply intelligibly in his current form. A shift of his weight from one foot to the other accompanied his slow outreach of his left hand towards the object.  
  
"Hawkeye--" Mulcahy spat out quickly.  
  
He looked up, his eyes questioning.  
  
Mulcahy settled down, nodding with a brief, "Be careful."  
  
They were all fairly certain that something extraordinary was about to happen. It was a humming in the air, a faint ringing of the spheres normally reserved for secluded forest spots, that almost made them all forget they were in an operating room halfway across the world from home in the middle of a warzone. Yet while Sparky, Mulcahy and Sidney allowed themselves to pause in that moment of wonder as Hawkeye reached forward, not quite sure what, if anything, would happen, but fairly certain that Something would, Hawkeye took the experience one level further.  
  
As a doctor, he knew what would happen when he touched the glasses. Nerves in his hand would report sensations up through his arm to the sensory strip on the lateral side of his brain, those signals would fire to the frontal lobe, where he would be told how cold the metal was, how rough the lenses were where they were covered with dust and grime, which would send off an automatic signal to another part of his frontal cortex allowing him to make some quip about the last time Radar washed his glasses. The message would them return to the motory strip, right next to the sensory one, and signals would shoot back down to his hand, telling him how to proceed. But all of that, he shoved aside. The little child of 5 years in him came out and replaced the doctor. As he reached, he began to smile. He knew precisely what was going to happen, and it had nothing to do with electrical signals and nerve endings firing. It was the rub of the magic lamp, the pressing of the spacecraft's super-turbo-button, the clicking together of the silver shoes: the others thought it would do something. Hawkeye knew it would do everything. He made contact. He believed.  
  
And so it came to happen that, as one of the collected dreamers had an idea of what was going to happen, and as the others at least had their minds open and were ready for the worst (or the best), the M*A*S*H 4077th's Operating Room disappeared.  
  
~ 


	104. Chapter 106: Into The Dreaming And Throu...

The fellow at the head of the table, when Sidney, Sparky, Mulcahy and Hawkeye opened their eyes (an interesting fact in and of itself, as they had assumed, as had we all, that their eyes were already open) had his hands planted sternly on the sides of the table, his fingers gripping the wood, his elbows so straight as to be slightly bent in the wrong direction as he eyed each one of them in turn. His eyes narrowed as his head turned from left to right. He was bald, with light, wispy white hair around the top of his neck, long enough to float slightly in a gentle, wafting breeze. His nose was sharp and severe, as were most of his features, including his small blue-green eyes.  
  
"Good. Good. Everybody's here, it seems," he spoke. He turned to the right side of the table, where there were three chairs. In the first, closest to the bald man, Hawkeye sat. Sidney sat next to him, and in the third chair was a slight, blond-haired private of no more than 17 or 18, who squirmed in his seat and seemed to blush and grow pale in turns. "Everyone who should be," he smiled, then turned to the left side of the table, where sat, in three similar chairs, Father Mulcahy, Sparky, and a tall, handsome man in olive drab who had his arms crossed and a self- assured smile on his face. The old man's words grew somber, "And some who really shouldn't."  
  
The man stood up and leaned over the table, peering at Sparky. "I'm surprised /you/ got through at all, corpse-taint."  
  
"And you," his words turned to fall onto the priest as he stood upright again and stretched his back, "Well, I'm grateful for your help, and I'll own up to it, but criminy if you didn't give me the most thorough beating I've had since Radar decided to take Randy sledding. Pardon me if I'm slightly hesitant."  
  
"Wait a minute, wait a minute, slow down a second so us kids in the back of the class can catch up." Hawkeye stood, pushing the heavy chair back with some difficulty, and came to stare the stern-looking man in the eye. "Where, exactly, is here?"  
  
And the man, in turn, slid back down into the seat of honor, spreading his arms wide in a loose shrug, "You tell US, Hawkeye Pierce. You brought us here, after all."  
  
Hawkeye DID know where they were. He just needed to be reminded of the fact before he could process it properly. He looked down the table, set with teacups and other paraphernalia which he could scarcely name but all of which LOOKED right, anyhow. A fat, round rodent waddled along the table's length away from the stern man before it reached a tray of biscuits and began to grab one. The tray was settled at the left hand of an eighth man, seated on the opposite end of the table from the severe one.  
  
The four visitors from the M*A*S*H unit seemed not to have noticed this gentleman OR his left hand before the dormouse brought their attention to him. His hair was brown and curly, reminding Hawkeye slightly of Trapper's, though much darker, and, oddly enough, interrupted on each side of his head by a round pair of darkly furred bear-ears. His eyelashes were long, his eyes invisible under them as he looked down and stroked the sleeping lamb that curled up in his arms.  
  
Hawkeye broke out into a grin, "Ah-ah!" he turned his head back to the severe man, his voice indicating that he'd proudly found a mishap, here, "If that's true, then where's your--"  
  
The man's hand coming up from under the table, bringing up a large top hat and settling it on his bald crown.  
  
"Hat." Hawkeye finished. "The Mad Hatter-- we're in Wonderland?" He spun his head around toward the other fellow, cradling Radar opposite. "And you must be the... March Bear?"  
  
"Well, darn," Sidney intoned, "Now I wish I'd brought my little notebook and pencil. No thanks," He added, nonchalantly enough holding up a hand of protest to the overstuffed rodent that tried to drop a half-chewed biscuit onto his breadplate.  
  
"Wonderland," smiled the Mad Hatter. "Yes, you can call it a land of wonders, but don't," he warned, "wonder too hard upon it, or else you're like as not to break something. Do pardon if my friend is unresponsive," he added. Indeed, the March Bear hadn't even looked up at being addressed. "He's still tending to our young ward's wounds. But have no fear; Radar will recover, now, and all thanks to your help."  
  
Mulcahy puzzled over the words, wondering why they sounded familiar. Then, as the mists parted easily in this land, he knew. "You're--" is all he began, however, before he was interrupted.  
  
"Bantelhopp, yes, Priest Father. You are suprised to see me in this shape. Well, talk to Hawkeye Pierce about it, it was his idea."  
  
And with that, the man turned his head slightly. From the new angle, it was clear to everyone that he wasn't a man at all, but, in fact, an eight- foot-tall dragon with long, clawed fingers and a whipping tail tipped with a row of ridged spikes, and the head of a large bird of prey, a large, sharp beak curving down between his aquamarine eyes. He continued to speak.  
  
"My friend's name is Qotenmatch. Again, pardon if he doesn't stand up. The forces of Autumn grow strong in your world again. It is the natural order of things, but that doesn't mean that the creatures of summer do not die without pain."  
  
Hawkeye and Sidney, seeming to have the same idea at once, opened their mouths, only to be cut off with a lifting of a long finger by Bantelhopp. "Yes. I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I'm certain my young ward's words misled you into thinking that your Korean war would end 'ere this fall. That is most certainly not the case." The dismay around the table was palpable.  
  
"Well... How do you know?" Sparky, his brow furrowed, questioned.  
  
"Our dear ward only meant that--" Bantelhopp paused. "Uh-oh."  
  
"What?" Qotenmatch looked up briefly, showing his brown, warm eyes, now draped in worry.  
  
"Wait for it--" Bantelhopp muttered, squirming around and climbing up the back of the chair to perch on its back, making his stature all the greater.  
  
It wasn't long before a thundering of hooves was heard, now in the distance, now close by, now here, as out of nowhere an eight-legged horse of snow-white pelt came thund'ring in, rearing its front four legs up into the air as it neighed in discontent, rousing most of the people around the table out of their seats. Atop the horse was a woman in red robes, her hair dark black and spiked in an unnaturally tall thicket that swayed above her head. Her face was lovely, but marred with a sneer as she looked down upon the assembled party.  
  
"WHO?" She asked, the word a question on its own, but, after a haughty pause, followed up by, "Is the Kithain present?"  
  
"Miss," Bantelhopp replied, his own voice suddenly becoming less didactic, more humble. "Our Fae lord is currently recuperating from a close call with a Corpse and an Autumn Man."  
  
The woman coughed and lifted her nose, peering across the table's length at the sleeping lamb. "I see. And does he know you bring these men into the Dreaming without his say on the matter?"  
  
Hawkeye Pierce was so entirely amused to hear anybody -- but ANYBODY -- call Radar a 'lord' that he missed the note of contempt in the lady's voice as she pronounced the word "men" down upon the group, glaring at him, in particular.  
  
"Miss--" the dragon chirped, "These are the dreamers who helped bring Radar around. And they came here under the power of this one, Hawkeye Pierce, whose grasp of the ways of Glamour is formidable among men."  
  
"I'm not so shabby at badminton, either," Hawkeye quipped, drawing the woman's attention back to him, again.  
  
"Bow, mortal, in the presence of the Sidhe," she snapped from atop her mount, and, much to everyone's surprise, most of all his own, Hawkeye executed a perfectly gallant model of one. Sidney, Mulcahy, and Sparky followed suit, equally without their reasoning consent, and they all remained bent double in attitudes of respect while the Sidhe looked over the rest of the chimerae. Qotenmatch was still coddling Radar, though he looked up nervously from time to time. The tall, handsome fellow stood with his arms folded across his chest, and the blond-haired private cowered behind him, peeking out at the noble Kithain.  
  
"Mistress, please," Bantelhopp objected, "We meant no harm. We merely sought to address the dreamers in person, and this... this is how they chose to come."  
  
The Sidhe slipped one long leg about to drape along the side of the horse's neck, executing a bounding dismount and landing in the middle of the table, as if afraid to be on the same level as the rest of the partygoers. "My true and heartfelt sympathies to your master and his problems," she spoke bluntly, nothing true or heartfelt in her tone. "But you simply can't go bringing people into the Dreaming. Especially," she pointed a finger accusatorially at Sparky, glaring at Bantelhopp, "Those that reek of corpse."  
  
Sparky tilted his head to sniff under an arm, then shrugged innocently at Hawkeye.  
  
The Red Queen paused as Bantelhopp shamedly hung his head, "My apologies, miss, I didn't think--"  
  
"You're right. You didn't think. And what in the name of the returning Spring is THAT thing?"  
  
Father Mulcahy had, through concerted effort, thrown off the compulsion to bow that had been imposed upon him by the Sidhe, and was glowering up at her by the time she noticed that he wasn't quite an everyday Dreamer.  
  
"I-- I don't know, Miss--" Bantlehopp stammered.  
  
"Ignoramus! Get it out of here! Not in five minutes, not in two. Not even now! Yesterday! Or you'll compel me to remove its head from its shoulders!"  
  
Her vibrant eyes met the Hunter's gaze, and saw that he was not afraid. Covering the ounce of timidity that crept into her own soul from his presence with a gallon of flair, she bent her knees and leapt off of the table in a swirl of her glistening red robes. A swift flick of the reigns, and the woman and horse disappeared as quickly as they'd appeared in the clearing.  
  
Sidney peered after the Red Queen in the direction he thought she might have gone. "Who was she?" He wondered.  
  
"Yes." Bantelhopp replied. "She was Sidhe." (Sidhe, pronounced She)  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"Anyway, pay her no mind, we will be leaving soon enough. You can--" The dragon coughed, "Stand up, now... we've got to focus on the matter at hand." The three who had remained bent for the better part of the encounter now stood.  
  
"Well I, for one, am for NOT BEING HERE when she gets back, /whichever/ she she is." Hawkeye informed the table, round-eyed.  
  
The dormouse crept out from under an overturned teacup, and squeaked.  
  
Sidney nodded, "Me, three."  
  
"Me, four, and five, and six!" Sparky muttered.  
  
Father Mulcahy would probably have been just as fascinated with the prospect of finding that woman again and showing her just what he thought of her forcing her will on others, for the purposes of the moment, he just nodded.  
  
Bantelhopp looked desperately down the table, and chirruped at the tall, handsome fellow who was ruffling the hair of the short, blond private. The man nodded and stepped forward, smiling pleasantly.  
  
"Hawkeye," he started, in a startlingly familiar voice. He sauntered around the table to put a hand on the captain's shoulder. "Come on, sit down, we've got things to go over. Don't worry about her, your priest over there scared her nearly off her saddle. And besides, I haven't seen you in a while. We've got a lot to catch up on. What's all this I hear about my being dead?"  
  
Hawkeye gaped. The voice-- he knew that voice, slightly tinged with a German lilt. He knew this man; the man stood about six foot four... was stunning with a smirk of a smile, auburn hair, and hazel eyes. "Tuttle?"  
  
Tuttle grinned and threw his arms around Hawkeye ecstatically. "Hawk! You remembered." He laughed and withdrew from the hug, holding one of Hawkeye's shoulders with one hand while clapping him firmly on the other. "Well, I suppose it's the least you could have done to remember, after I forged those requisition forms for you, huh?"  
  
Hawkeye grinned widely, unreasonably pleased by coming across his old friend. "And after I forged a /reality/ for you, huh? Oof!" he gaped, getting clapped on the arm by the tall, strapping solider. "A lesson for the ages. Never make up somebody who can probably beat you up."  
  
Father Mulcahy skirted around behind the dragon to join the other two. "Tuttle? /The/ Captain Tuttle? I've heard so much about you from the children at Sister Theresa's orphanage."  
  
Hawkeye laughed, "Father, it was all a ruse; Tuttle was my imaginary friend when I was small. I made him up, he's not r---" A chimerical screeching that seemed to make the air twitch in pain filled the clearing, cutting off Hawkeye's explanation.  
  
Tuttle was staring at him, his expression one of indignant pain.  
  
Qotenmatch was holding his hands cupped over the sleeping lamb's ears. He looked up in similar pain, his brown eyes flashing with the anger of a mother bear protecting her cubs.  
  
Bantelhopp shut his beak again when he was certain he'd shut the Captain up. "Never," he spoke softly, his words almost lost in the fierce ringing that occupied Hawkeye's ears. "Say that," he finished. "Especially not here. We are as real as you are. Here you may feed your greedy senses on the 'fact.' It is the very notion that, since some people choose not to see us, we do not exist, that is our Undoing."  
  
"I thought I meant something to you, Hawkeye." Tuttle murmured, wounded in a way that no jump from a helicopter sans parachute could match.  
  
"You did! I mean, you do... I mean--" Hawkeye blathered, trying to find words to express what he felt for his long-lost childhood friend, only ever revived to help them con the army and help the orphanage. "What do I mean?" He muttered to himself.  
  
"What you mean, Hawkeye Pierce," Bantelhopp leapt from the top of the head chair to land on the table, scattering tea-trays in every direction and sending the dormouse scurrying, "Is that once upon a time you were able to see Tuttle, and know that he was alive, and real. And then... you shut your eyes. Or had them shut for you."  
  
Hawkeye peered distrustfully at the mind-reading dragon, who continued: "And it's like that all over the world. At younger and younger ages children are being forced to close their eyes to the reality of Dreams. Our kind are dying, Hawkeye. We term the final day when man will cease to know of us at all "the Winter." But we are uncertain as to whether spring will come again. We will all be dead. Man's disbelief will Undo us, as Ferret Face, Winter Incarnate, has nearly Undone Radar. And man will no longer dream."  
  
Sidney leaned on the back of the chair he'd been sitting in, assuming a casual stance as his forehead wrinkled slightly in confusion. He looked up into the dragon's eyes without any fear or hint of being intimidated by the mythological creature. "But that's impossible. Dreaming is an integral part of humanity's psyche. Without it, I don't even think we'd qualify as being human anymore."  
  
Bantelhopp snapped his beak irritably at the psychologist. "Think of that the next time some poor childling's parents come to you and ask you to cure their little boy's delusion that his favorite blanket speaks to him at night! Or when you counsel 'troubled youths' to stay in school instead of running away to try their chances at being a famed musician! Or when--"  
  
"Calm down." Mulcahy quietly commanded. "There's no sense laying the blame for this... "Winter" coming on any one man or profession."  
  
Bantelhopp whipped his long, spiked tail around in the air irately, but shut his beak, nonetheless. With a firm *clack.* When tempers had had a second to cool, he continued.  
  
"The Fae-- the Kithain-- when the summer first began to wane, had to take on mortal bodies not to be killed outright by man's disbelief. Some-- the Sidhe, for example, have stayed here, in the Dreaming, exclusively." The falcon head turned after the lingering scent of the horse, a note of timid disdain in his voice. "But most travel again and again to earth to take on mortal form and re-introduce mankind to the wonders of Glamour."  
  
It was Sidney's turn to look incredulous, "By putting Grape Nehi in the camp showers?"  
  
"In any number of ways. The Pooka, yes, through humor. The Eshu, through exoticism. The Satyrs, through eroticism. The Redcaps, through terror. There are many passions, no one greater or less than the other."  
  
Hawkeye crossed his ankles, and, leaning casually against a chair with one hand, rubbed the other one up through the back of his hair. "Between all the different sorts of kindred, and all the different sorts of kithain, I'm going to need to start taking notes." He then spread the hand out, gesturing to the other side of the table, where the little blonde soldier boy was still kind of cowering, hovering over Qotenmatch's shoulder. "But now I'm curious." His hand fell to his thigh, slapping there as punctuation. "If you're Tuttle," he pointed to his onetime best friend, "Then who are you?" he queried.  
  
The boy looked up, deer-in-headlights with his mouth gaping open as he was addressed. "Uhh-- I, uhh..."  
  
Tuttle grinned and hiked himself up on the table, settling there next to Bantelhopp. "Oh, it's no wonder you don't remember him, at least... you only met him once... though you did make a wonderful portrait of him later. Come on, Charlie, don't be afraid. These guys are okay."  
  
"Charlie?" Hawkeye furrowed his brow in thought as the young man timidly skirted his way around the table, blushing like a maniac.  
  
"Private-- Private Charles Lamb, sir." Lamb did a curious sort of half- salute.  
  
It took a moment. But Hawkeye's neck lapsed backward and his mouth opened in a cackling guffaw of uncontrollable laughter. "Radar's little brother, right?" he gasped out in between peals.  
  
"Aah!" Sparky suddenly shouted, having been looking on and not having noticed a thin, short Korean man sneaking out of the woods and reaching around to pickpocket him of a piece of Wrigley's. "Who's this guy?" He demanded nervously.  
  
The Korean man lifted his hands helplessly, grinning like a fool or a madman. "Kim Luck, number one G.I. Joe man. Kim Luck; got something for sister? Kim Luck;" He leaned down to the dormouse and pointed at a biscuit. "You want that?"  
  
The dormouse squeaked and rolled it towards the gentleman, who stuck it into a pouch that bulged with the impression that it carried more stolen gear than Harpo Marx's pockets.  
  
Hawkeye's laughter redoubled. Lamb and Tuttle began to snicker along. Soon even Sparky, who had no idea what was going on, and Father Mulcahy, who finally put aside the cold Hunter mask he'd been wearing, were laughing. They all laughed until their guts ached, and sat back down at the table, where an extra chair had appeared for Kim Luck without anybody really questioning it.  
  
'Cause the Dreaming is a funny place, like that.  
  
~ 


	105. Chapter 107: Home Again, Home Again, Ji...

Soon they were picking dormouse fur off of biscuits and sipping steaming hot tea, relaxing and happily forgetting about the angry Sidhe who stormed in earlier and the various yelling that had gone on. Bantelhopp had retreated to the top of the head chair again, and had the handle of a teacup clenched in the sharp claws of two long fingers. He pecked and licked at the contents, creating a vastly amusing sight with the Mad Hatter top hat still perched on the white-grey feathers of his head.  
  
He cleared his throat, or some chimerical equivalent, and picked up a spoon with the thin tip of his tail, bringing it around to clink on the side of the teacup and call for attention from the crowd.  
  
"Yes, pardon me. It is nearly time for us to return to the world of autumn." He bowed his head in silent reverie for a moment; a reverie that was shared by the entire table. "I'd like to thank our dreamers, once again, for believing enough to come here, and I'd like to offer them a small token of appreciation before I make my parting comments."  
  
The dragon looked around, chortling and clucking amusedly to see the raised eyebrows all around.  
  
Qotenmatch smiled. "What are you planning, Ban?" he queried across the table, one of the few times he'd spoken in the hours they'd been sitting and chatting.  
  
The dragon's scaly chest puffed out proudly, and a dewlap of feathers spread in a fantastic display below his beak. "I have been known as a Chimera who knows... certain things. I would like to be able to answer you each a question of your choosing. I know that you all have plenty. I also know which ones you'll ask; which is good, it saves time in the deciding, and the asking. So, without further ado, I shall reply."  
  
"Show-off," Tuttle grinned impishly.  
  
Kim Luck pocketed a spoon, looking up attentively and smiling.  
  
Lamb crouched at Qotenmatch's side and tweaked at a sleeping Radar's ear, making it twitch.  
  
Bantelhopp leaned down and tenderly placed a set of fierce-looking claws on Father Mulcahy's shoulder, looking into his eyes.  
  
"Yes." He answered. "There was a time when Fae ruled over man like men now rule over cattle. And there are some who still believe that this is the way of things. They are called the Unseelie, the Winter court. Without regard for human life they sap their victims of all emotion, adding to the numbers of disbelievers in the world. You yourself saw," he turned and nodded to Hawkeye, "And you yourself felt, how easily Radar was misguided into Unseelie action. Yet he was brought back again, and restored what it was he had taken." He turned back to the priest, "Thanks to you. Our blessing goes with you if you choose to lessen the Unseelie threat in the world."  
  
Rearing up again, he looked down at Sparky, closing his eyes for a moment before opening them again and beginning to speak. "No. And, yes, I know you don't believe me, but that is the Corpse blood tinting your brain. There is no real affection between yourself and the Seneschal. I advise you to watch closely what happens to others of your sort, Ghoul, as they call you, and consider what your fate might be after they've decided you're no longer of any use."  
  
Twisting his head until his eyes fell on Sidney. Sidney crossed his arms, taking his time analyzing why it was so discomforting to have questions answered before they've been properly asked. He looked around, smiling a bit as they each got a taste of the bane of Henry Blake's previous existance. His fingers knit themselves together, and he leaned forward to listen to the answer to the question he'd formulated.  
  
"No. You're not imagining things. The guilt disorder promulgated by your University is nothing more than Corpse lies. If you attempt to go against them, they will know. And things will not go well for you. Move carefully, Doctor Freedman."  
  
The dragon turned his head to Hawkeye; his eyelids began to droop in something like sadness, his spoon-bearing tail to fall a little from its spirited whipping.  
  
Hawkeye looked up expectantly. His smirk was somewhat disbelieving, that of a clever student excepting to have caught the teacher at a loss. His eyes, nonetheless, were hopeful, shining blue as he watched the features of the avian face.  
  
"July 27, 1953."  
  
There was not a trace of smirk left to be found. On Hawkeye's face, or on anyone else's. Had he really asked--  
  
"I'd suggest--" Bantelhopp interrupted the reverie, "That you write down any of this you particularly care to recall in future upon your return. One of the side effects of man's disbelief is that a veil of mists has descended between our world and yours, making it difficult for your kind to remember interactions with us very clearly... and by very clearly I mean at all."  
  
The voice of the chimera was sad and disdainful all at once. "Which is why I've waited until now, as we're about to leave, to ask you-- to command you- -" he started again, trying his best to sound his most authoritative. "to charge you with two missions of the utmost importance."  
  
Hawkeye looked up, concerned, "Try asking. We're all friends here, remember?"  
  
Bantelhopp lowered his head in admission of the fact. "Radar will recover, thanks to your efforts. But to lessen the impact of his unfortunate encounter, he must be taken somewhere safe to spend the day."  
  
Father Mulcahy looked across to Hawkeye, "Not his office-- people are always going in and out of there."  
  
Hawkeye nodded, "Not the swamp-- Ferret face is in there, and he's the last tentmate Radar needs."  
  
Bantelhopp nodded. "Correct, and even more correct. He needs to be taken to the cave across the minefield."  
  
"What?" The three mortals and one semi-immortal chorused in confusion.  
  
"Freehold..." whispered Qotenmatch, the word itself a song, a smile stretching across his mouth.  
  
"Indeed. The cave is a freehold," the dragon explained, "a natural outpouring of glamour. If Radar rests there a while, with Qotenmatch's help he should make a swift and sturdy recovery."  
  
"Well, that doesn't sound too tough," Sidney patted his hands down on his legs, about to stand up. He caught such a sorrowful look from the dragon, however, that he sat down again. "That's not the tough part, is it?" he hazarded a guess.  
  
"Indeed not," Bantelhopp affirmed, and sighed heavily.  
  
Hawkeye's lower lip trembled -- he couldn't stop it -- as all at once he divined where it was heading.  
  
"Henry," he whispered.  
  
Mulcahy's eyes widened. He tilted his head up to look from Hawkeye to Bantelhopp, who was nodding quietly. His eyes flitting back to Hawkeye, now squinted slightly, warily. "I'm missing something," he stated curiously.  
  
Sidney gave his old psychologist "Aha... How jumpy Radar's been around the Colonel... I thought it was just the expected psychological trauma of the... recent developments."  
  
"Aha!" echoed Father Mulcahy in his light, airy tone. "And how that Sidhe reacted to Sparky's presence here..."  
  
"Aha!" re-echoed Sparky. He paused. "What, 'aha'?"  
  
"To put it shortly," Bantelhopp began, "The power of man's disbelief is the most omnipresent threat to the Kithain way of life. And the force of that disbelief seems to be... concentrated in certain substances. Most notably, cold iron... and vampires."  
  
Father Mulcahy was too stricken by the statement to even think to take note of it for possible future use-- he looked down to the teacup in front of him, murmurring, "Poor Radar."  
  
Hawkeye nodded, his voice raising in something near anger, but falling away more toward helplessness. "Yeah." He stated, clipped. "Poor Radar." He shook his head, his voice raising, "Henry was like a father to that kid! It was bad enough when he-- died," Hawkeye still had to get over a lump in his throat to say that. "Now he's got to be... allergic to him?" He shut his eyes.  
  
"Hawkeye," Qotenmatch spoke up, his voice gentle and soothing, his bear- ears turning to point towards the doctor. "We've spoken to him over and over again about it. He won't listen to us. He's simply too fond of Colonel Henry Blake."  
  
Bantelhopp nodded and took over, "Please. Talk to him. And keep him away from the corpses! He needs some time to recuperate."  
  
Hawkeye looked to the other three, who nodded shortly and quietly. Hawkeye summarily nodded as well. "We'll do what we can."  
  
Bantelhopp nodded. "Thank you, Hawkeye Pierce. Thank you, all of you." He looked up at the sky, which was beginning to darken with a swirling vortex. "See you in the funny papers."  
  
~  
  
Thirteen and a half minutes after the troupe had disappeared into the O.R., they came trundling back out through post-op, Mulcahy and Sparky each bearing the end of a litter that had gone in with a young man, a pair of glasses, and a teddy bear, now bearing a teddy bear, a pair of glasses, and an adolescent ram, Hawkeye Pierce and Sidney Freedman hurrying alongside.  
  
Private Tillman's mouth gaped open; he pushes himself up on his elbows, his cheeks pushing up into his eyes as he craned his neck to get a better look.  
  
Hawkeye bent over and winked at him as they passed. "Isn't it amazing what they can do with modern plastic surgery?"  
  
~ 


	106. Chapter 108: Door, Chair, Man

There is a kind of furious reverie that allows thought but no action, contemplation of all but acceptance of none, and which, moreover, seems to rape the world around it in its intense desire for something it-knows-not- what.  
  
In such a state of mind, with a rapid pulse and racing thoughts, did Father Mulcahy find himself as he fell back into the solitude of his tent, the first, at least, of the requested missions from the Chimerae having been enacted, the second of which having been discussed but not enacted by the four conspirators, as both subjects of the plot were asleep at the time.  
  
Mulcahy had always keenly felt the solitude, the loneliness of his personal habitations; he fell into bed and eyed the door which was always open and never seemed to open at all, the chair which was always ready to recieve, but never seemed to perform its intended task. Well, for once he was glad of it. Even though he knew no one would come, he harshly and bitterly wished that no one would come and interrupt him in his thoughts, which currently ranged on the very fact that he was positive no one would come.  
  
A door whose hinges were unused; a chair whose seating was unused; a priest whose comfort was unused. Mulcahy scoffed at the ridiculous nature of this trio. They grated at his nerves all of a sudden; grated on him like the thought of the three blank pages at the beginning and end of every army- issue bible. Each just lined in yellow enough to be noticable, three page turns' worth of anticipation for the beginning, or reverie after the end. And a normal state, besides-- any pause of thought that brought the priest's hands off of the pages -- to clean his glasses, or to fold them in prayer -- brought the book flipping back to one side or another. When his vision became clear again, or when he opened his eyes once more, with near inevitability one of the blank pages was staring up at him.  
  
He'd always liked to think of them as the buffer the war deferringly placed between itself and the sanctity of the book. A representation in white of the peace of mind required to fully take in its teachings.  
  
Now they were meaningless. Meaningless, empty. They mocked him with a mirror of his own existance.  
  
'Well, no longer,' he decided.  
  
"No longer," he spoke out loud, deciding the action. He tumbled out of bed in a mass of pent-up frustration, and grabbed the bible up from where it sat. The bible, duly confused, came with, never protesting, ever the good soul. It must have wondered who this fellow was, and what it had done with the camp priest. It was not used to being handled in such a manner.  
  
He thumbed it through... Psalms, Isaiah, Matthew, Romans, Revelations, Blank, Blank, Blank. The last three flipped past with a series of confused flaps which Mulcahy took as taunting. He gripped the three near the spine, and was about to yank hard, when a better idea occurred to him.  
  
He picked up a pen in his trembling hand, dragged the chair over to his desk, and sat in it so roughly as to cause the wooden structure to complain. He dampened his lips and turned to the first blank sheet of paper. He began to write.  
  
He comprehensively wrote down all he had learned in the past week. He drew trembling lines to diagrams, the various names of the monsters he'd met and heard about. Their various weaknesses. That a piece of cold iron could wipe a changeling out of existence was very interesting to him. As was that changeling blood was, towards the "Corpses," as the fairies liked to call them, "Of an incapacitating... capacity." He drew the strange sigils he'd seen, all of them, and in what circumstances, along with what he felt they signified. As he looked at the list, he began to realize... it was some sort of language... some sort of code. He smiled, and became more eager, drawing intrepid sketches of Henry, Radar, Irene, Joles, and Meg, both as he normally saw them and as he... SAW them. He explained the situations under which they appeared to him in their true forms. Before he knew it, all six blank pages had been filled up, front and back.  
  
The bible in which he'd penned these words is today known among certain hunter groups as the Korea Text. Its existence is believed by some, laughed at by many, and sought after by a few devotees who are sure its contents would add strength to the Hunter population as they fought to take back the night from an odd assortment of zombies and goblins that seemed to infest it. Its location, however, has long been unknown.  
  
A fierce tremor rolled over the priest as he put down his pen and examined his work, nearly bursting with pride at the opus. Standing up, he tucked his thumbs into his pants and stalked the corners of his room, still feeling antsy. Finally he came to pause next to the desk chair, and reached out a hand to a bit of cloth, unfolding it to reveal the syringe of kindred vitae he'd acquired from Sparky.  
  
They stared at each other, the syringe and he.  
  
Well, why not? Why shouldn't he drink it? He had never felt so well as he had in the days after the drink. His knees were no longer weary, his back no longer ached, and he felt fitter than he had 15 years ago. He was on the good side, here, he reminded himself, picking up and uncapping the syringe, pointing the needle into one of the cups of coffee he had accumulating on his desk. If they were using this stuff to survive out there and kill people... he could certainly use it to feel up to going out and finding more of them. He squeezed. The coffee tinted red. He stirred, syringe acting as temporary swizzlestick.  
  
Why not? And so he drank it. The taste salty and metallic and WRONG but irresistable. The rush, nearly overwhelming. He settled himself down into the chair again, his mouth gaping open. He tried beat down with a sheer force of will a stirring in his... soul that began to think, "why not?" to going down to Rosie's tonight and picking up a business girl.  
  
~ 


	107. Chapter 109: Two Years

Hawkeye and Sidney made the treacherous meander back to the swamp's cool shade from the bustle of the Mess Tent at lunchtime to find Sparky there, on a stool, back leaning against a wooden slat of the wall, feet up on a crate as he downed a glass of gin, just as home as if he'd been born here.  
  
A plop sounded as a large-bellied rat lifted up an olive on a toothpick and dropped it into a second glass, a third and fourth already prepared in that manner. It spun around and shoved the glass towards the edge of the crate, where Sidney picked it up.  
  
"You've got to have an iron stomach, Sparky, to keep guzzling this stuff."  
  
Hawkeye ran his hand up over the front of his shirt, squinting back in the direction of the mess tent. "Hey, Sid, give us some credit, too; we braved the incredible inedible lunch. And don't talk about iron: we've got enough strikes against us here with Major Winter snoozing away inside."  
  
"Yeah, those Sidhe really must be a pain in the buns if this little creature decided to come back with us..." Sidney nodded down at the rat, which had appeared at the cave and had trailed them back to camp, and which, through its peculiar actions, they had decided must be the Dormouse in disguise.  
  
The dormouse nodded back up at Sidney sleepily, and hefted a martini glass to sip at the contents from the lip.  
  
Hawkeye laughed: "A born Swamp Rat!"  
  
And with that, he slipped inside the tent, from the company of two waking men and the dream that drank with them, to the company of two dreaming men drinking the sleep of the weary. He sat down on his bunk and crossed one leg over the other, untying his frayed bootlaces. He wondered what B.J. was dreaming of.  
  
When one boot, having fallen, was followed by the falling of the second boot, and when Hawkeye was in the middle of disrobing, his mind began to wander. All of a sudden, with his khaki undershirt bunched around his neck, he dove across the bed and grabbed a note pad on which he'd been writing a letter home. Under the last paragraph he'd written, he grabbed up a pencil and scrawled 'July 27 1953.'  
  
That done, he stared at said scrawling. And threw it down on the bed in frustration, his eyes prowling around the room for someone to blame.  
  
"Christ," he muttered, whipping off his undershirt and throwing it down with equal fervor. From here to the COMING July seemed like an eternity. Imagining staying in Korea for that AND another year seemed unbearable. He looked at the sheet again, checked his math, seeming, as promised, to have a hard time keeping the precise date in mind without looking at it. Yes. Nearly two years.  
  
"Two YEARS," he nearly whimpered, but still, desperate, he tore the date off from the bottom of the sheet of paper and jammed it forcefully under his pillow. At least he knew that the war WOULD end, some day.  
  
And at least, he comforted himself as he finished undressing for the shower and tossed on his bathrobe, he wouldn't be here to see the end of it. After all, he's been here since nearly the beginning... they don't typically keep you around for the whole deal, right? They send you home... like they sent Trapper home, like they sent Henry home. He's got to be getting out of here soon enough, right?  
  
Right?  
  
"Second Tuesday of the month," Hawkeye explained as Sidney and Sparky looked up to him exiting the swamp.  
  
As he strolled towards the showers he could hear Sidney and Sparky re- emerge in conversation: Sparky was eagerly answering questions about his relationship with the Seneschal, in glowing terms and with the air of one who doesn't get to talk about a favorite topic much, and will gladly jump on the opportunity. Sidney was listening intently, watching a kind of mania bubble up in the Ghoul, a kind of intense obsession the likes of which Sidney had scarcely seen before.  
  
Hawkeye smiled to himself to hear the psychologist reach out to the fanatic, and the fanatic jump eagerly into the psychologist's care. He stepped into the shower tent, his towel draped around the back of his neck.  
  
~ 


	108. Chapter 110: Ablution Of The Body

Father Mulcahy had taken the time to beat his punching bag to a frazzle, and hadn't let it stop swinging before he was dressed, or, rather, undressed, for a good shower. Now that the initial rush of the vitae had worn down, he was one more feeling quite himself: even more himself, perhaps, than he had this morning, when crabbiness had overcome his typically genial demeanor. Withdrawal's a bitch, and certainly a mother of bitches.  
  
"Oh! Good afternoon, Hawkeye," he smiled as he entered the tent and found it half-occupied. "I'd have thought you were asleep by now."  
  
Hawkeye turned his eyes, his chin thrust forward in an attitude of shaving. The bright blue eyes sparkled over a cluster of foam. "I'd say the same of you, Father, but with all the coffee you've been chugging recently, I doubt if you'll sleep again until 1953." The date stuck in his mind.  
  
Mulcahy smiled warmly, cast his eyes down to the floor, mildly ashamed. "Yes, uh, well... it's been a rough week for all of us." He walked around to the other side of the shower, and, reaching in intrepidly with one armsleeve of his robe rolled up, he pulled the handle.  
  
"Hm. Still... grape." He commented, letting the handle go and bringing his grape-nehi-splattered hand back out of the stall.  
  
"I know; I'm glad I remembered to check..." Hawkeye mumbled, "I'll be out in a minute, Father."  
  
Mulchay lifted his purple-spattered hand dismissively, "No hurry, Hawkeye." Curious, and perhaps having inured himself to tasting strange substances, he cautiously licked up a droplet. "Oh, my." Was all he could comment.  
  
Hawkeye sped up, nonetheless, hastily shaving off the stubble from his chin in a haphazard fashion. All was silent for a moment but the rushing of the shower water. Then, Hawkeye: "Look, Father, I just wanted to say that I was sorry-"  
  
Just as Mulcahy was saying: "Hawkeye, I wanted to apologize for how I-"  
  
They both broke off, laughed wanly.  
  
"You better lay off that nehi, Father, you'll turn into a Changeling." Hawkeye smiled to himself as he quipped. "And you know the church is against suicides."  
  
Father Mulcahy stared at him blankly, his brow suddenly furrowing.  
  
For "nehi" he had heard "vitae," and for "Changeling," "Monster." It shook him to the core.  
  
Hawkeye let up on the shower handle, the water's flow ceasing as he sensed the distress of the Priest, though not necessarily its cause. He shook his head: his mouth had been walking two steps ahead of him.  
  
"I'm sorry, Father," he mumbled deeply.  
  
He pulled the chain again and began to rinse off the dregs of shaving cream.  
  
Father Mulcahy shook his head. "It's quite alright, my son. It's quite alright. I deserved that." He smiled, and his smile was the old, genial expression Hawkeye was used to seeing on their mild-mannered camp chaplain.  
  
"After all, I'm over here to keep you all in line. It's the least you can do to return the favor," he added in a jocular tone.  
  
Hawkeye, relieved, smiled and gave himself a final rinse.  
  
"Thanks, Father," he spouted through the falling drizzle, a wide, trademark Hawkeye-grin spreading over his face at the at least momentary truce between the two. And yet, his smile soon faded again.  
  
"Darn it! Out of hot water, already! Sorry, Padre." Hawkeye shrugged helplessly.  
  
Mulcahy just laughed again, indeed seeming to be his more cheerful self, in general. "It's alright, Hawkeye, I was kind of looking forward to a nice... cool... shower anyway."  
  
~ 


	109. Chapter 111: The Dreaming Takes A Charg...

The day was wandering on towards evening, the sun leaning down to peer as far into the dream-bent cave as possible. Still this particular freehold's geological formation was such that, no matter how it tried, those eager beams cold not peer down into the innermost sanctums.  
  
This fact did not long escape the wakening Corporal, who, having spent the better part of the day there, was feeling much more himself. Or much less himself, depending on which way you see the situation. Suffice it to say, he felt much better as he woke up to the sun in his face, its rays peeking over his shoulder and straining to reach down the cave's narrow throat.  
  
"Open up and say 'ah,'" spoke the light to the freehold. "I'll give you a lollipop," it added.  
  
The freehold turned its head aside like a stubborn child intent on keeping its swollen glands to itself.  
  
Even Radar, in his infinite jocularity, was forced to utter: "Baaah!"  
  
As he was still a lamb. The lamb stared down into the darkness, and his bleating seemed to signify that even he found the kid's tonsils in need of taking out.  
  
Radar bleated again, and Bantelhopp and Qotenmatch turned their heads away fur the duration of their master's transformation. It's a well known fact that the Pooka grow testy if you try to watch them change.  
  
When they turned back, Radar was standing at full height again, so to speak, in the mouth of the cave, his hand lifted over his eyes as he tries to see down into the back of the cave. Both the darkness and his lacking of his spectacles impeded him.  
  
But there was something there. Something not quite right. Yet something that the freehold had, for one reason or another, decided to take to its bosom. A glamour-soaked anomaly. Radar wondered at it.  
  
"Maybe we'd better go," he spoke, scooping up Bantelhopp and letting him climb into his accustomed spot, then Qotenmatch, holding the little bear between his arm and chest. The trio duly wandered away into the sunset...  
  
Only returning three and a half minutes later when Radar remembered that he had forgotten his clothing in the cave, where the dreamers of the morning past had left them for him.  
  
~ 


	110. Chapter 112: And Shall I, After Teas An...

The usual chatter and clinking of tin utensils on tin trays filled the mess tent.  
  
"Yeah, pass the ketchup. What IS this stuff? Oh. Hi, Hawkeye."  
  
"Pierce! What in the name of the late, great Douglas Adams happened to you? You look like you've been to hell and back-- oh, sorry, Padre."  
  
"No need. A startling and perhaps overly negative allusion, but not altogether... not apt."  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"I think what he's trying to say, Colonel, is that Hawkeye never went to bed last ni-- this morning."  
  
"How'd you know that, Hunnicutt?"  
  
"Easy. His bed's made."  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"His bed's never made. I knew something was off when I saw the hospital corners."  
  
"Out carousing, Pierce? And taking our chaplain with you?"  
  
"Well, you know me, Colonel, dreamer of a thousand dirty dreams."  
  
"And owner of a thousand dirty socks."  
  
"Sidney, over here!"  
  
"Freedman, you look like death warmed over. Need some coffee?"  
  
"No thanks, Colonel, your shower just graced me with the first hailstorm of the season. Sorry for the dark circles, I didn't catch a wink, I--"  
  
"Let me guess. Were out with my surgeon and my priest, wherever the three of you were."  
  
"Is that where we were?"  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"Nevermind. And there were four of us, actually."  
  
"Pray tell, who's the fourth zombie I should be on the lookout for today amongst my upright and dedicated staff?"  
  
"He's not coming... Boy! And if I had any good sense, I'd learn how to live on gin and kindred blood: this food!"  
  
"No need to comment. Coffee, Pierce?"  
  
"Please."  
  
"Padre?"  
  
"No, thank you, I'm fine."  
  
"Hey! You are! Look at that, no crust in his eyes, no pillow-wrinkles on his cheek, not so much as one little dark circle! Who do you know?"  
  
"*chuckle* Oh, Hawkeye..."  
  
"Well, obviously not the person who made this bacon. And I use the term 'made' in its least divine sense. After all, no deity in the world would nod his head and say let there be THIS stuff... I'm talking hammers and nails!"  
  
"Do you always sniff your food?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"Nevermind. Just, nevermind."  
  
"What's with you, Hunnicutt?"  
  
"Don't mind him, Colonel, he just woke up on the wrong side of the war."  
  
"Oh. Well, at least here's a member of my staff who looks to have slept today. Have a seat, Radar."  
  
"Oh, thank you, sir. Yeah, I slept real great, you know, those new blankets from HQ are nice and warm."  
  
"Radar.... We haven't gotten the new blankets from HQ yet."  
  
"Oh, well, I guess I slept well just dreaming about them! H-Heh!"  
  
"Right. Sidney, could I bother you for some pointers on how to get a section eight across?"  
  
"What, for Klinger?"  
  
"No, for my company clerk!"  
  
"Aww, Colonel, how can you look at that sweet little face, those maniacal little eyes... and call our lovable little Radar "crazy?" Why, he's no crazier than I am!"  
  
"Make that two section eights!"  
  
"A section sixteen, sir?"  
  
"Radar!"  
  
"Better make that a section 24."  
  
"Sidney..."  
  
"32, actually."  
  
"Et tu, Padre?"  
  
"A matter of faith, Colonel. I've long been trained to believe in things that can't be proven."  
  
"I think I'll take my chances on some more bacon. You all can tell me what the heck you're all going on about later."  
  
"Later-- hey, that reminds me, Beej, what time is it?"  
  
"About 1930 hours... why?"  
  
"Hey, Radar, you want to do me a favor?"  
  
"Sure, sir..."  
  
"I asked Nurse Kellye for an evening report on Klinger. Mind going over and picking it up for me?"  
  
"No problem! Least I can do after that big bash you threw today."  
  
"Well, looks like you got to him, too, Pierce. Is my entire staff going to be corrupted?"  
  
"Well, with a little bit of luck..."  
  
~ 


	111. Chapter 113: Have The Strength To Force...

The conversation wound itself around in several variations on the same theme, as conversations in the mess tent were wont to do, yet Father Mulcahy fell silent, drinking from a small glass of powdered milk. He watched through the mesh screen wall as the world outside grew dark.  
  
He thought.  
  
He thought about Philadelphia, he thought about whether it was daytime or nighttime there. He counted the hours backward in his mind, took a mental trip homeward only to find that he passed through the entirety of a day and into the darkness that just precedes dawn. The citizenry of his hometown would be in bed, all asleep at this hour, blanketed in the dark, deep calm he'd grown to know fondly in his short bouts of insomnia that still periodically came to him.  
  
He thought of, of all things, Mr. and Mrs. Willard, he chuckled, ostensibly at something Hawkeye was saying, always a safe bet: but really picturing the husband's shaggy beard, the wife's little mole on her assiduously scowling face. It was as if he could see them sleeping there in the pitch black of pre-dawn. He almost felt guilty, looking in on their conjugal bed like that. They were a set of caricatures, husband and wife, his features round and soft, hers angular and harsh. Had he then known about Colonel Potter's painting habit, he might have thought of inviting the Missourian to the coast to paint a sitting of them after the war.  
  
Colonel Potter would probably enjoy the challenge of making the two oddly disparate spouses match together enough to fit in a painting, and as for the Willards themselves... it would be the least he could do.  
  
Mr. Willard, at least, had been one of his biggest supporters among the congregation while most of the others were still mourning the loss of their former priest, Father Danielson.  
  
Mr. Willard had been the first to greet him with a cheerful smile, his funny beard twitching, the first not to head into long detailed discussions of Father Danielson's work and even longer eulogies of how he'll be missed. His wife had followed his lead. He'd never said thank you. He wasn't quite sure at the time what he was thankful for.  
  
Their son Andrew was the first man for whom Father Mulcahy had carried out the last rites. The first that Mulcahy had ever put into the ground as an ordained Priest.  
  
And, as he presided over the ceremonies, he felt like a stranger. Somebody there carrying out a job, given no more attention than the coffin-maker or the grounds-keeper.  
  
Only Mr. Willard, of all the crowd the one with least reason to be expected to do so, looked up from his weeping wife and the gaping grave, and nodded some sort of acknowledgement.  
  
He thought about sitting out in the sun outside his tent, here, in Korea, he thought about looking up to the mountainside and seeing the line of white creatures marching in formation. Soldiers of some foreign outfit?  
  
No, Ho-Jon had explained, when asked, before he left for the States. A funeral party.  
  
Mulcahy, fascinated, had stood up to watch.  
  
He thought about all these things as the dusk became darker in hue and the grey dust through the green screen began to tint blue from the familiar combination of camp lights and moonlight.  
  
He'd never given another funeral service since that time, having been blessed with a generally healthy flock and the quick arrival of a war.  
  
The war? A blessing? He dismissed the thought. At least, not for him. Though since he'd gotten here, he'd often thought that perhaps the congregation was happier with whoever came to take his place. Perhaps they'd then had a chance to grieve, and were now ready to take a new spiritual leader to heart. Perhaps Mulchay's timing was simply off. And perhaps his leaving for the army was the best thing for everybody. That was certainly what he had told himself back then.  
  
From Mrs. Willard, he'd received a fruit basket, assiduously picked out from a catalogue, and from Mr. Willard, a smile, and a twitch of his funny beard, and a wish of good luck.  
  
"If you mean to your comrades in Korea," he'd said, "What you've meant to my wife and I."  
  
The man's eyes had brimmed, he'd smiled more broadly, clapped the priest on the shoulder, leaving the rest of the statement unsaid.  
  
Was it pride for the priest to have wanted to hear the end of it? It might have been, he now reflected, though now he didn't feel any further want. He knew what it signified.  
  
His timing was wrong in Philadelphia. The people there were, as Hawkeye Pierce would have likely put it, "on the rebound," and were simply not ready to place their faith and trust into the hands of another man. With time and patience, perhaps two things he had a little bit less of than he ought to have had, a bond would have formed, as one had here.  
  
As one had here. The words flowed naturally along in the Hunter's train of thoughts, but, once enunciated in the depths of his reverie, they hovered there, demanding investigation.  
  
Yes, it all seemed natural enough. The way Henry Blake strolled into the mess tent a half hour or so after the darkness fell. The way the others there reacted to his arrival, the way Hawkeye scooted over to offer him a place to sit. There were words exchanged: the priest smiled meekly and looked on, not particularly listening.  
  
Yes, everything seemed normal, natural for the moment. Granted, Klinger and Radar were in post-op, granted, Trapper was already likely at home 'refusing his first house call,' granted, again, that Majors Burns and Houlihan were... well, yes, that was normal, too. But seeing the familiar interaction between Hawkeye and Henry, despite B.J.'s looking on with a distaste that Mulcahy noticed even if the other two didn't, the hunter couldn't help but feel that everything was just as it should be, that he was just a simple army priest doing his best to keep a simple army surgical outfit from falling to pieces around the doctors who were trying, in turn, to keep their patients from falling to pieces.  
  
Sidney soon came over to bid good evening to the newly arisen Brujah, and even Colonel Potter exchanged polite greetings with the man he'd replaced.  
  
Father Mulcahy assumed he'd said something in the way of a greeting, perhaps something such as, "Good evening, Colonel Blake," or something so equally polite as to get a bit of a stare and a curious tip of the hat from the (rightfully so) slightly suspicious Brujah.  
  
"Father," Henry smiled warily, his voice lilting as he nodded.  
  
But the hunter simply smiled with that cautious kindness that seemed purely his. He knew what needed to be done. Seeing Henry there, Hawkeye sitting on his right, Sidney standing at his left, at his right the doctor who cares for the body, at his left the one who cares for the mind.  
  
There was a third left to be tended to. Having been a Hunter, Father Mulcahy had nearly forgotten to be a priest.  
  
Besides. Radar would soon writhe from the grasp of the devious Nurse Kelleye. Their charge from the dreaming, as he remembered, was to keep the two apart.  
  
"Henry..." Father Mulcahy finally spoke up, the formalities dropping, but not his quietly demanding tone, "Do you have a moment?"  
  
Henry quirked a brow and slid out from in front of the bench on which he'd been sitting, his eyes following Mulcahy as the priest stood and wandered towards the door. "Sure, Father," he frowned a bit and began to follow.  
  
The vampire paused as the door closed behind the hunter, and as he prepared to follow, he thought better of it for a moment, turning back to the table to smirk over a half-serious comment, "If I'm not back in fifteen minutes, send the MPs."  
  
~ 


	112. Chapter 114, Parts A through I: Glimmers...

"Well, thanks, Radar," Nurse Kellye murmured sweetly, "I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't come along."  
  
"Oh, it wasn't nothing," Radar replied, slowly letting the sleeping patient he'd earlier levitated to the ceiling descend back onto the newly made bed that Kellye had done up.  
  
Several other patients were looking on anxiously.  
  
"While you're here..." the nurse began again, somewhat wheedlingly...  
  
~  
  
In the mess tent, Sidney leaned over to Hawkeye and tilted his head towards the door. "What was that all about?"  
  
That hadn't been part of their clever little plan.  
  
The hunter was improvising. Hawkeye and Sidney exchanged a worried look.  
  
B.J. and Colonel Potter, on the other hand, looked between themselves with less concern.  
  
~  
  
"Fourteen boxes of syringes over here," Radar reported, "And two of broken tongue depressors."  
  
Radar looked up at the clock as Nurse Kellye laughed.  
  
~  
  
Frank peeked out from under the little khaki flap that covered the screen in Margaret's door as he fumbled with getting himself dressed.  
  
"Margaret? Who's that out there with Father Mulcahy?"  
  
"Frank, you're buttoning your pants up to your shirt."  
  
~  
  
"What do you mean, you don't have it?!" Radar whined indignantly.  
  
"I mean Dr. Pierce never told me to write it all down... I've got it all--" Nurse Kellye tapped her temple, "Up here."  
  
Radar sighed and flopped down at the post-op desk, grabbing a piece of paper and a pencil that was little more than a nub.  
  
"Okay, go ahead," he stated, and poised himself to write.  
  
"Patient name: Maxwell Q. Klinger."  
  
Radar looked up at her incredulously. She waited for him to write it.  
  
~  
  
Hawkeye slammed his fork down on the tin tray in front of him, breaking the awkward silence that had fallen over the table. He stormed up out of his seat and was two steps closer to the door when he heard the monosyllable from their new commander:  
  
"Pierce."  
  
He wheeled around.  
  
"They need to deal with this themselves." "Oh, no..." Pierce started to shake his head with near violence, "There's no way I'm just going to sit here and--"  
  
"Yes, there IS a way you're just going to sit here and. It's called my giving you a direct order. Park it, Pierce."  
  
What was this? A direct order? Bah, Hawkeye had heard plenty of them before. From Ferret-Face: easy to ignore. From Henry Blake: easy to laugh at, and easy to follow when rephrased in the form of a polite request.  
  
So why was he just standing here? Why was he coming creeping back to the table like a dog with his tail between his legs? Why was this different? Hawkeye burned with anger, glaring at the C.O.  
  
~  
  
"No test results indicate neurofibromatosis..."  
  
Radar belabored under the onslaught of words the nurse was throwing at him, now trying to abbreviate them only to have her repeat the word with a slightly different collection of vowels a minute later, so that he had to go back and ask for the spellings of each. His hand was beginning to cramp, and he began to feel a little suspicion as he suspected such rote listing of medical terms would bore him to tears, but no such boredom came. He almost felt something familiar in the way Nurse Kellye was talking to him.  
  
"A-a PO2 gradient apical."  
  
Across a void somewhere, one liar reached out to the other.  
  
~  
  
"Hi, honey," the dusky-skinned woman swooned, "Pardon me, soldier," she commented to the wounded man in the next bed as she nestled onto the side of his bed, leaning over to look at her husband, whose eyes opened to look at her with a frightened and distraught look.  
  
"God, you're such an idiot," she began to inform the silent corporal. "They've taken you out of that fucking dress, at least. Changed your underwear, too. You know you'd made mess on yourself? I can't believe you. You really married me wearing that thing? If that vampire had told me that over the phone, I would have hung up. You called me collect for that call, too. I paid over ten dollars on it, including the extensions to my parents. And then they had to sit there and comfort me when our connection cut out. They shouldn't have bothered. I shouldn't have waited. I should have known you'd never do anything right in your life. How was I supposed to expect you to do right for me? How should the army have expected anything of you, either? They should have gotten rid of you when they had the chance."  
  
His wife's bitching voice faded away as a nurse came to sedate Klinger again and wipe the new-sprung tears off of his cheeks.  
  
~  
  
"He's right, Hawkeye," Sidney sighed, sitting down next to Hawkeye after a few more minutes of the terrible silence. "Those two have issues they need to work out between themselves. Our interfering wouldn't help anything."  
  
"Like hell they need to work things out!" Hawkeye spouted, his fuming quietude burst by Sidney's statement.  
  
"Henry's leaving tonight! They might never have to see each other again! Why do they suddenly need to "resolve their issues?" This isn't a marriage, Sidney, you don't need to worry about their "going to bed angry!" You know as well as I do that they'll end up pulling out their mongoose and cobra act, and who knows but that they'll end up killing one another? Or worse?!"  
  
He wasn't sure what exactly he meant by "worse," but he figured, considering the strange nature of the week's happenings, he'd leave it as a catch-all category.  
  
The door opened, and those who weren't facing it spun around, those who were craning their necks to look hastily.  
  
Radar, looking more than a little disgruntled, came in and silently passed a sheaf of paper to Hawkeye. Only then did he look around, the eyes on him making his brow furrow with a notion.  
  
He turned his head and peered back outside into the darkness worriedly.  
  
"Where's the Colonel?"  
  
~ 


	113. Chapter 115: Tu Redemisti Nos Sanguine T...

Colonel Blake was, in point of fact, standing in front of the Chaplain's tent, staring at the aforementioned man of god with the face of a man who'd just been asked whether or not he preferred bat guano as a topping for hamburgers.  
  
He'd woken up that morning in the usual fashion, by the grace of that screeching monster that took its daily fee of blood, leaving the Brujah taxed and nervous until the beast calmed down a bit and he dared to creep out of the coffin the edge of which he'd finally grown accustomed to not tripping over. He walked slowly the first few steps, nearly on tiptoe with fear of rousing the creature, until it finally seemed that he was he, himself once more, and none other. Still it bothered him. He'd woken up to this voice every evening since the plane crash. And how many nights was this going to go on? He didn't have an answer. Nobody in the camp, had he asked around (which he hadn't, never having been the morbid sort), had the answer. Not even the little dragon perched on his Company Clerk's shoulder. Some things, including the time and manner of a Kindred's meeting with Final Death, lie beyond the view of the most far-sighted.  
  
But, for now, the moment of angst passed, replaced with a moment of.... no, not confusion. He was too befuddled to be confused. Too shocked to be befuddled. And just the tiniest bit... nervous.  
  
"I'm... I'm sorry, Father?" he finally stammered, beginning to doubt his own senses. Father Mulcahy hadn't possibly just said that he wanted--  
  
"Come inside," the Priest spoke firmly, looking around the compound for the individual who wasn't supposed to know of Henry's whereabouts this evening, and for those two who weren't even supposed to know he was back.  
  
Henry complied, perhaps against his better judgement.  
  
"I really think," the Father continued, turning on a light that illuminated both Henry's unnaturally pale complexion and the slight flushing of his own face. He'd never had to have a conversation like this before, and he couldn't help but feel rather awkward. "I really think it's the right thing to do. And as I suppose I have neither the time nor the poor sense to send the question to the Chief of Chaplains... I thought I'd simply... tell you."  
  
"Tell me..." Henry echoed vaguely, still not quite believing what he was hearing, his voice taking on a hint of an incredulous tone that evidently struck ill with the priest, from the way his eyebrows lifted themselves, and the way he spun around on his heels in mid-pace to face his old C.O.  
  
"Well, ask you, I suppose, Henry, though I honestly didn't think you'd object. Do you object, Henry?"  
  
Henry took a deep breath and lifted a hand in objection to the charge, but, as he was about to speak, was cut off--  
  
"Colonel Blake," Father Mulcahy began again, his voice suddenly cool and formal, "I don't know that you ever noticed, during your time here at the four-oh-seventy-seventh, but I've always tried my hardest to do what I can for this unit-- in both a professional capacity and in all other capacities I've found it within my... capacity to fill."  
  
Henry stepped forward, trying to object, again, but, again, was cut short--  
  
"Furthermore, Colonel, I think you'll agree that your present... state falls well within the realm of both the profession in terms of which I've joined the army, as well as within that of my more recently acquired occupation."  
  
Mulcahy crossed his arms behind his back and managed to look genial and deadly serious at the same time as he continued: "And-- as much as I don't look forward to it being the case, I fear that if you refuse the help I feel I can offer you in my office as Priest of this outfit, I will find myself without any further options, and will here and now show you in more detail than will be pleasant the trappings of my new position."  
  
Henry watched his priest begin to froth at the mouth, and squared his shoulders as his own beast rowled up in reply. He opened his mouth, expecting to be cut off again, lifting a finger to try to get his own two cents in. Then, as the priest was silent, he fell so, too, his hand becoming unclenched and falling to his side.  
  
"Well. Um. Since you put it that way, Father."  
  
Henry looked around, unsure of the procedure, here. "Should I sit down?"  
  
"Yes. Yes, please do." The Father turned his back, leaning over his accoutrements while attempting to sound like at least one of them knew what was going on. He turned his head and chuckled softly, nearly warmly again, back at Henry. "Come on, Colonel. You've seen this done before," he reminded him.  
  
Henry thought back to all the grueling O.R. sessions... the priest just a flicker in a corner, a flash of purple, a gleam of silver, a flurry of patterned motion that seemed only to exist on the periphery of reality.  
  
"I guess so, Father... though most of the time I was kind of busy in there..." he prompted helpfully: "You know... with the surgery?"  
  
He could see the priest's head bob in a gentle nod, "I understand, Colonel. Why bother with the ones that were already lost, when your attention could be spent on the ones that could still be saved?"  
  
Henry lowered his head at the mention of the ones lost, the unsavable ones there hadn't even been any time to shed a tear for. "Something like that, Father."  
  
"Then you'll understand when I say that those men-- that those boys who received my attentions were ones I saw as still being able to be saved."  
  
Henry looked up from his reverie, fairly startled at the sight of the chaplain in all his various attire coming at him, half-tempted to run, to get the hell out of there.  
  
"Usually, of course, the boys who come through here are in no condition to tell me differently. But you, Henry Blake, are a different case. I believe your soul may yet be redeemed. But you-- do you believe that?"  
  
Henry looked up and tried to lighten the mood with a chuckle. "I don't suppose that saying "no" right now would be the best idea, huh?"  
  
Mulcahy didn't seem amused.  
  
Henry shook his head, "Look, Father. I don't know what you want me to say. Can I be redeemed? Redeemed from what? From the incident with that kid? I've had an entire village on my back for that one! From nearly killing Hawkeye? Well, I saved him, didn't I? For drinking blood?" The Brujah's eyes, having flashed with anger a few seconds previously, now turned away and stared at the floor. "Well, I put up with enough on account of that..." he ended in a mutter, the priest's hand, out of nowhere, coming to rest one finger on the underside of his chin and lift it up, looking down into his eyes, repeating something he'd said what now seems a lifetime ago.  
  
"God bless you, Henry Blake."  
  
He gently shut the vampire's eyes. Henry leaned back, nervous, but willing to oblige, suddenly calm as the rush of Latin words came soothingly from the Hunter's mouth, the words unintelligible but clear.  
  
Equally unfathomable was the simple touch of the priest's thumb over his shut and dead eyelids, the light dab of oil smudged there exuding a kind of warm lethargy as the words of the last rites rambled on quietly in the background.  
  
The warmth spread up across hid forehead, dripped down his cheeks and took root at the top of his spine, beginning to seep downward and soak into each still part of his lifeless form.  
  
His dulled attention became roused slightly when he heard a screaming, but he was too near gone to do much about it, even when he realized that the screaming belonged to none other than he himself, mingled with the higher- volumed and more frantic chanting of Latin-sounding prayers and imprecations, only a few words of which he recognized from his medical training.  
  
He wondered vaguely, as he fell into unconsciousness, whether the priest had always prescribed twice-daily administrations of morphine along with his last rites.  
  
~  
  
"Henry? Colonel Blake?" Mulcahy's voice, now once again solicitous and gentle, roused him from his unexpected slumber.  
  
He made a vague noise of acknowledgement to the priest, though he felt more inclined to make one concerning the throbbing pain in his skull and chest. He found himself stretched out on the chaplain's neatly made cot, and was glad of that fact, at least. Saved him the trouble of having to lie down.  
  
He chuckled softly, stopping when the gesture caused the aching to increase. "Must have been some party, Father. Pity I don't remember it."  
  
Father Mulcahy placed a cool rag on Henry's forehead. "What /do/ you remember, Colonel?" He slowly and cautiously pressed the rag down.  
  
A moment passed in thought, in the course of which Henry's memory of the past hour came trickling back. He frowned anew at these aches and pains, and lifted himself up into a sitting position, lifting his hand to hold the rag to his forehead himself. The eyebrow that wasn't slathered in rag made a serious effort to list itself as a gesture to the priest.  
  
"Father, what on earth did you do? It's not polite to kick a man while he's down for the count, you know."  
  
Mulcahy rose from his knees and came to sit beside Blake. "I know, Henry," he answered in a low murmur, "And, to be honest, I'm.. not exactly sure what I did to you. I'm... not very experienced at this sort of thing, you know, I just... kind of went with it."  
  
Henry clambored to his feet, wincing at the pain in his skull, even as it seemed to fade. "He "kind of went with it,"" he muttered, "Like some improv piano piece." He shook his head.  
  
Mulcahy looked up timidly. He might have felt bad for 'experimenting' like that, if it weren't for some already evident results.  
  
"Henry," he murmured. "Do you know you're breathing?"  
  
"What are you talking about, Father? Of course I know I'm--"  
  
Henry paused. He was, in fact, drawing air in and out of his lungs on a fairly regular basis, a habit he'd fallen out of in the last week.  
  
He focused on it, and halted again. He waited. There wasn't any prickling in his lungs, there was no further ache added to the diminishing pain in his head, there was no lightheadedness or other indications of a need for air. Yet when he turned his attention back to the priest, again, he found he resumed the practice automatically.  
  
He stood with his mouth gaping open as he further realized that the ache in his head had been throbbing only because his heart had been busy shoving blood through his veins in their normal, natural patterns. And that the cool rag on his head actually felt cool because his forehead was actually warm.  
  
He took a few breaths as he contemplated this. No, it wasn't really that big a deal. He'd produced the same effects before, it just took some effort and more resources than were pleasant to spend, in terms of the hard- sought vitae.  
  
What DID startle Henry into turning back around and sitting down, his eyes wide in something near panic, was the vague recollection from a few minutes ago that he had woken up to the sound of Father Mulcahy's voice. And that that had been the only sound to wake him. Indeed, all was quiet, and, as he focused on the quietude, he felt a sense of being alone with himself that he hadn't felt since the crash.  
  
He patted down the pockets of his vest, the pockets of his pants, in a gesture indicative of the fact that he felt he had misplaced something.  
  
Or someone. Where was that pesky beast, anyhow?  
  
"Holy cow..." Henry muttered. He found it. It took a little bit of prodding introspection, of tenatively slipping his psyche into areas of his soul that he'd been barring off for the last week for fear of what might come out. He found that beast, all right. And instead of being the object of a lion's mauling paws, he found himself being, proverbially, of course, batted by a kitten.  
  
The beast had gotten beaten over the head with a spiritual rolled-up newspaper, and had scampered off to live in silence with its tail between its legs. It whimpered when prodded, and exuded a weak claw that Henry was able to gently put back in place with little effort at all.  
  
He turned to the Father.  
  
"You know, John Francis Patrick Mulcahy, I could just about kiss you."  
  
Mulcahy rose, smiling as he saw Henry Blake re-emerge, at least partially, out from under the curse of vampirism that had been placed upon him. "I'll take your word on that. Welcome back, Henry."  
  
~ 


	114. Chapter 116: Goombye, Henry

Radar paced the near bank of the little stream near camp and muttered.  
  
He'd been running across the compound for the last who-knows-how-long, and was starting to get the impression that he'd just been pooka-ed. From the mess tent he'd followed Hawkeye's direction toward the office, where an MP had told him that yes, Henry'd been there, but had left for the supply tent, where Radar went and found Nurse Bigelow inventorying supplies, who told him that Henry'd begged a pair of stockings out of the already dear supply from her and was more than likely at her tent with her tentmate Leslie, whom Radar then hunted down only to have her make her excuses to run off to post-op, having gotten a message from Major Houlihan that she was needed, but say that yes, Henry'd been there, but he'd gone off to the stream to pick up some worms in case there was anyplace to do a little fishing near the Evac.  
  
And all the while, Bantelhopp had been unusually silent toward him. Not that he'd expected any help from the Chimerae in trying to find his friend; yet as he tread the loam he began to suspect something of the taciturn dragon. And, after a moment's more thought, he thought he suspected what that something was.  
  
"Oh, am I gonna get you for this," Radar muttered at the dragon.  
  
Bantelhopp, perhaps put off his guard by the threat, or perhaps just so used to forecasting the familiar sound that it just slipped out, chirruped, "Chopper."  
  
"Chopper?"  
  
"Oop." Bantelhopp frowned, wrapping his long tail around his beak in a sheepish manner.  
  
"Colonel Blake...!" Radar realized, and ran off, slipping down into the mud as a result of the sudden burst of action, but springing back up and bolting across back toward the camp.  
  
~  
  
"Pierce, Hunnicutt," Joles chuckled, drawing them away from the group that trundled up to the chopper pad. "I've got a little going-away present for you."  
  
"But we didn't get you anything," Hawkeye complained with a wide grin on his face as he watched the Seneschal lean closer, looking aside to the rest of the group as if afraid that certain of its members might hear.  
  
"Next time you get a chance," Joles explained, "Ask Majors Burns and Houlihan about," he leaned a little closer, "Kimee, the housegirl they met on their R&R. They'll know who you mean." The innuendo was thick in his voice, causing four eyebrows on two doctors to rise in perfect unison.  
  
"Oh, Joly, you didn't," Irene called, her head having snapped around during the course of the conversation.  
  
Joles chuckled and leaned back away from the group. "What ears that woman has..." he mumbled admiringly, "I could nibble them for hours," he added, ostensibly for the sake of Hawkeye and B.J., but fully aware that she could hear him, as well. Then, "out loud," he called, "I've told you before, Irene, it's easier to cover up existing memories if you give them something... interesting... to remember."  
  
Irene shook her head in distaste, but smiled anyway.  
  
"Well," Potter was saying to Henry, the two sometime C.O.s of the M*A*S*H 4077th walking along ahead of the rest until they came to pause on the little platform around the waiting chopper. "It's certainly been an interesting meeting, Colonel Blake. If there's one good thing I could say about it, it'd probably be it's been a real shot in the arm to these people to know that a man can come out of this war alive," he nodded vaguely, "Even if he's dead."  
  
Henry wasn't really sure whether or not that was a compliment, but, as it sounded intended as one, he reached out a hand and shook Colonel Potter's, "Thank you, sir. I know I'll be leaving these folks in good hands."  
  
Sherman Potter nodded graciously but curtly, stepping aside as Father Mulcahy and Irene stepped up onto the platform, followed shortly by Hawkeye, B.J. and Joles. The priest stepped forward and moved to clap Henry firmly on the arm in a friendly gesture.  
  
"Good bye, Henry," he spoke, "And good luck."  
  
Henry nodded, "You too, father. If what he's been telling me is true," he jerked a thumb shortly in the direction of the Seneschal and gave a low whistle, "You've got your work cut out for you."  
  
Leslie Scorch, meanwhile, had come up from behind the group of people, whispering something to Hawkeye concerning Radar's whereabouts. Hawkeye nodded and whispered something back, at which the Lieutenant flushed red and went slightly open-mouthed. Moving up through the crowd, she came to the arms of the man she'd been glad to consider her lover, married, undead, or otherwise. She slipped easily into his grasp and pecked a kiss on his startled lips before leaning further up to whisper to him.  
  
Henry's eyebrow seemed to attempt to reach orbit around the rest of his face. He looked at Hawkeye, who give him a wink and an O.K. gesture with his hand, grinning like the maniac he was.  
  
While the others discreetly made themselves occupied staring elsewhere, Henry shrugged, leaned over Leslie, and Kissed her. With a capital K. If you know what I mean. If you don't, the hint of red that Henry deftly wiped from the corner of his mouth while Leslie was trying to compose herself might give you a hint. He held her up when her knees went weak, the peculiar sensation that accompanies vampiric kissing being every bit as... intense... as Pierce had mentioned. She regained her feet and gaped at Henry as she hesitantly stepped back.  
  
Henry smiled faintly, "Yes, well, Lieutenant, I'll check into that when I get to the 125th," he babbled. "Hey, if... you're ever in Illinois, you look me up, okay?"  
  
Leslie smiled back, "You think you'll be in the phone book?"  
  
Henry lifted a finger, "Good point, um, I'll look you up, then, instead."  
  
Leslie shook her head at the ridiculous nature of the last comment. "Good bye, Henry," she chuckled.  
  
When the assembly realized that the couple's little moment was over, they turned their various attentions back to the matter at hand. B.J. strode up to the Lieutenant-Colonel next, rocking up onto the balls of his feet antsily.  
  
"It was good to meet you, Colonel Blake. Now I'll have a face to go along with all the stories Hawkeye's been telling."  
  
Henry chuckled and was about to speak when B.J. continued:  
  
"I, uh, hope you don't mind if, under the circumstances, I don't ask you to call up my wife and kid when you get back to the states. In fact," he laughed, a nervous laugh to cover up a certain bitterness, "I'd feel a lot better if you just kind of left the state of California alone, altogether."  
  
"Right," Henry nodded, confused, but willing to go with it, "No California. Got it."  
  
Hawkeye came up beside B.J., and put a hand on his shoulder, "Down, Beej."  
  
B.J. turned away, leaving Hawkeye and Henry facing one another.  
  
Irene was approaching Joles' side as he climbed into the chopper, "Do you know what you're doing?" she asked him cordially, a hint of laughter in her voice.  
  
Hawkeye smiled at Henry, eyes brimming a little with tears. "Get the hell out of here, Henry."  
  
"I think I can get us there," Joles replied, in all seriousness.  
  
To the startled expression Henry gave his cursing, Hawkeye added, "And get home safely, this time. I don't want to know what you'd come back here as next..."  
  
Sparky ran up the hill and loaded the gear into the back of the chopper before climbing in, himself.  
  
The two surgeons hugged tightly, then parted.  
  
Irene ran around the chopper as it began to start up, and climbed in, squeezing next to Joles to leave room for Henry in the front of the machine.  
  
Henry frowned a moment, hand reaching up to hold his hat in place as he looked around.  
  
Hawkeye knew who he was waiting for. He reached out and batted him on the shoulder, a tear spilling down his face. "Get out of here!" he yelled over the increasing noise of the chopperblades.  
  
A semi-audible yell of similar nature was heard from Joles inside the chopper.  
  
Henry smiled faintly, nodded, clapped Hawkeye back on the opposite shoulder, and climbed into the helicopter, buckling up and shifting to half- hold the Toreador on his lap as the machine lifted off.  
  
The group still on the chopperpad crouched down against the winds. The odd arm waved, the odd eye squinted up into the night as Henry Blake's features became quickly obscured in the darkness.  
  
While the air was still stirred by the whirling blades, while the dust was still settling from the nocturnal lift-off, Radar O'Reilly came running up onto the platform, lifting his hand over his eyes and peering up into the night.  
  
Hawkeye turned and watched the Corporal, pity for the poor boy wrenching at his heart as he watched the emotions flash across his face: anger... despair... all finally fading into an intense worry, eyebrows knitting together in the centers, mouth contracting into a frown.  
  
After this look had settled across Radar's features, and as the group had begun to mill about again, preparing for descent, Hawkeye approached Radar.  
  
"Look, I'm sorry, Ra--" he began.  
  
"You didn't tell him, did you?"  
  
Hawkeye paused. "Tell him what?"  
  
"About the thing... with the blood..."  
  
Hawkeye looked down. "No, Radar, I didn't."  
  
Radar looked up again, and nodded. "Good," he affirmed.  
  
After another moment, he turned his face toward Hawkeye's. "I wouldn't want him to think... I don't like him... just because he's a--"  
  
Hawkeye nodded, and put an arm around Radar. "He knows, Radar. He knows."  
  
The group on the chopper pad was engulfed in silence. A silence too thick to not be cut by something big. Radar wasn't the only one not surprised by the announcement.  
  
"Attention. Attention all personnel. Ambulances in the compound. Looks like the war's still in town after all, folks."  
  
~ 


	115. Chapter 117: And Just When You Thought ...

The scene was familiar, the flickering halo of lamplight above the double- doors out of the operating theater. The ache was familiar, the shoulders that were hunched too long, the knees that were locked too long, the feet that were standing too long. Six shoulders, knees, feet stumbled out of Pre-Op, still donned in slightly blood-spattered gowns they were just too tired to shrug off.  
  
Three deep exhalations accompanied the moment when they creaked back into motion, Potter, B.J., and Hawkeye, as it would so many times in the next year and a half.  
  
'Year and a half?' Hawkeye thought. It took him a moment to remember what he was thinking of. The mists were claiming him.  
  
As if on cue, Radar hurried along on his two little bare feet from the direction of his office.  
  
"Radar, what day is it?"  
  
"It's not, sir, it's still tonight."  
  
Hawkeye shook his fist in the general direction of the war. "Come on, you can do better than that."  
  
"Colonel Potter, sir?" Radar continued, scuttling along backwards before the wearily-advancing group of surgeons. "General Imbry called. Wanted to welcome us back and wonder where we had to bug out to."  
  
Potter nodded blearily, "Get him back on the phone, Radar, I'll try to straighten it out."  
  
Radar's eyes shifted with a significant glance to the sky, "Now, sir?"  
  
"Oh. Right. No, Radar, tomorrow. And make sure I'm up for breakfast tomorrow-- 0800 hours." Potter looked at his watch, squinted at it, and yawned, "Make that for lunch at 1100."  
  
Radar made a dramatic scribble on his clipboard. "Right, sir."  
  
He turned around as Sidney sauntered up to the group, likewise turning himself to follow along with the slow migration, "Trying to become diurnal again, Sherman?"  
  
"Why bother?" Hawkeye cut in before Potter could reply, "This war is just as likely to wake us up in the middle of the night as it is to wake us up in the middle of the day. In fact, I think that for our next big trick we should all give up sleep altogether."  
  
Sidney chuckled, "It's not a bad idea, Hawkeye," he noted, "It's been proven that lack of exposure to daylight can instill a kind of depression known to my German forebearers as "angst.""  
  
B.J. snorted, speaking up for the first time. "Well, the Camarilla must be full of it."  
  
Father Mulcahy emerged from the operating theater, where he'd just finished helping to clean up after the carnage, and hurried to join the group, catching just the tail end of B.J.'s statement and the nervous chuckle that ran through the rest of the crowd.  
  
He looked up into the air, squinting a bit before startling those who hadn't noticed his arrival with this question: "Where do you think he is, now?"  
  
"Who, Padre?" Colonel Potter asked.  
  
"Henry..."  
  
The name hung there strenuously, bringing up various emotions from various members of the throng. Radar cut the tension.  
  
"Colonel Blake? I heard he went looking for some good fishing spots down in Seoul."  
  
Hawkeye grinned, "Yeah. Should be back in a day or two... a week at the outside."  
  
A smile wrestled its way onto the Hunter's face, and he couldn't hold in a laugh.  
  
The group continued in the silence and darkness that decked the Korean countryside at night, and the bands that held them together were starting to dissolve as the Hawkeye and Sidney headed toward the swamp, the priest toward his own tent, B.J. towards some necessary location, Radar and Colonel Potter toward the office complex.  
  
But they all froze in their places when they heard a voice from behind the lot of them call out, "Hawk?"  
  
Hawkeye turned around, his eyebrows raised at the voice, his mouth gaping open wordlessly at the sight that met him.  
  
Potter turned, too, giving a questioning look. Radar leaned to one side of the Colonel, and his hand flew up over his mouth to stifle a gasp.  
  
Sidney turned beside Hawkeye, and just as soon as he did, he turned into a mirror-image of the slack-jawed surgeon.  
  
B.J. peered back over his shoulder and knitted his eyebrows together stormily. "Oh, god. Not again."  
  
Mulcahy felt a prickle on the back of his neck at the tone of the voice, and he finally slowly turned around after hearing B.J.'s comment.  
  
The angelic script was glaring from this curly-haired monster's countenance, its gaping fangs drenched in blood. The priest's hands lifted in pain to try to shield his eyes from the sight.  
  
All of this in the second, or perhaps two seconds, after the voice had rung out over the compound.  
  
When Mulchay lowered his hands again, the vision had gone, and he saw only what the rest of the group saw: Captain John "Trapper" Xavier McIntyre, pale as death, standing with his arms splayed in a helpless shrug.  
  
"Hawkeye," he continued, "I think I'm in real trouble..." he began.  
  
Colonel Potter coughed.  
  
"Radar, would you--"  
  
"I'll get the Seneschal on the horn, sir, yes, sir, no problem, sir."  
  
"Get the Seneschal on the-- thank you, Radar."  
  
~THE END~ 


	116. Epilogue: Loose Ends And This And That A...

Life slowly tried to return to normal at the 4077th. Those who couldn't be trusted with the information about the Camarilla were taken care of in one way or another, and those who cold were left to go on with their merry existances.  
  
Trapper John had been embraced by the same group of Brujah as had embraced Henry, though it was hard to say whether they had the same exact sire or not, as the rest of the Brujah had suddenly and mysteriously disappeared. Trapper had claimed to have felt something strange the night they disappeared, leading those who were more knowledgeable about such things to believe that the group had met with Final Death one way or another, causing their blood, still fresh in the new childer's veins, to complain.  
  
The Sheriff of Seoul had declared himself to have had no part of this killing. Rumors began to fly about the possibility of having overlooked a native population of vampires on this continent. The Camarilla to this day univocally denies the existence of these so-called L.I.K. (Local Indigenous Kindred).  
  
Henry and Trapper were situated in a boat with one other vampire, a Nosferatu, on the way home to the states. The Nosferatu showed them the hows and wherefores of hunting while on the ship, as, back in the United States, they couldn't count on wounded flying in every few minutes, and they certainly couldn't cont on stores of blood being readily available in bottles. There are rumors that, one night, after the three kindred had gotten thoroughly wasted on some of the most alchohol-rich blood they'd ever taste again, the two Brujah underwent a secret Nosferatu initiation ritual that supposedly involved a game of hide-and-go-seek and fifteen rats.  
  
Meanwhile, back at the camp:  
  
Klinger's condition seemed only to worsen in the following days. When the Seneschal was asked about this fact, he sent some quantity of kindred blood to the camp, with a note as to the bottles' contents and its stabilizing effects. The note also read that if Klinger survived the month out, that he was probably, in fact, crazy, and that he himself would return to the camp and make him his childe, returning the curse of Malkav where it belongs. This promotion from living to dead, of course, would be accompanied by a transfer-- back to Toledo.  
  
"Hold on," Radar had said, Klinger's bedside having become one of his favorite haunts, "You can make it, Klinger..."  
  
Radar and Qotenmatch experimented a while with the insanity that ravaged Klinger's body. As insanity causes in its holder a way of seeing the world that's not quite 'true,' as other people would see it, insanity and glamour (the power of imagination on which Changelings feed) are normally quite interchangable. An excess of glamour in any Changeling sends them into a state known as "bedlam." It's no wonder Radar suddenly began to enjoy Klinger's company.  
  
It was through Klinger that Radar began to really experiment with glamour and its powers. On one unforgettable day at the 4077th, Radar had managed, with Qotenmatch's help, to make physical all of Klinger's psychotic delusions. Laverne, cursing and spitting endlessly at him, was beginning to disturb the other patients, and was escorted away by a pair of MPs. She paced the VIP tent, angrily ranting, her voice growing softer and softer in her imprisonment as she became slightly transparent, as a ghost, and finally faded altogether. It was the most restful day Klinger had seen as of yet. The fact that the ceiling of the Post-Operative ward had disappeared and had been replaced with a vision of the city of Toledo could hardly be corrected, but the noises from the busy city below/above were drowned out by the radio they kept playing in the ward. "Happy days are here again," crooned the radio.  
  
As the staff of the 4077th wasn't about to just pump random vampiric blood into one of their patients, nobody missed the packages from the Seneschal that all seemed to be disappearing somewhere.  
  
That somewhere happened to be into the tent of the Hunter-Priest Father Mulcahy, who had, as we have seen, developed a taste for the stuff during the earlier visit of the Kindred. That supply, combined with what he had surreptitiously taken from Henry Blake while he lay unconscious after their... encounter, lasted him well though the war.  
  
He managed to control himself enough to wean himself down to a cup of spiked coffee a week which would keep him going until the next week came around, though sometimes just barely. He typically imbibed on Saturday nights, and used the ensuing rush to perform a vigil of penance through the night, causing him to feel thoroughly exhilarated for his Sunday mornings. A few people actually started coming to his sermons, not the least of which being Radar, who seemed to find the fervent passion for belief... appetizing.  
  
Not enjoying the idea of being fed from during his sermons, Father Mulcahy firmly requested that Radar sleep in on Sundays. Abashed, Radar bowed his head and complied.  
  
Klinger passed on about three weeks into the month trial period allotted him. Qotenmatch and Radar had begin another experiment, attempting simply to leech and purify as much of the insanity as possible from him, that he might return to normal. It seemed to be working. In fact, it WAS working. Klinger finally became lucid enough to commit suicide.  
  
As a side effect of this process, Radar had countless tiny items enchanted with bits of the insanity-glamour taken from Klinger. Trying to put it to good use, he had attempted to feed this glamour, bit-by-bit, to Frank Burns, who was, as we have seen, without any of his own, and thus a rather painful influence for Radar to be around. This, too, seemed to be working, Frank seemed to loosen up a bit, become a bit more human. The swamp rats took note, and comforted him through Margaret's wedding. But this experiment, too, backfired, as Radar, in a fit of distress over the loss of Klinger, began to unwisely administer the glamour in larger doses, and, as a result, Frank Burns went completely bugfuck nuts as well, and was carted away in a padded truck.  
  
Even without Frank Burns there, the war and its banality were wearying on Radar, and Hawkeye saw it. So when an investigation committee came to the 4077th to investigate fraudulent phone calls made to a poor widow in the United States reporting to her that her husband was still alive, Hawkeye was the first to back up the fact that Radar had placed the phone call, and Sidney was first to recommend that the boy be sent home before he completely cracked up over here. The recommendation was taken to heart, and Radar left for home.   
  
Everybody else went home, too, sooner or later. Most of them later. Father Mulcahy was threatened with discharge after spending his leave time stalking certain high-ranking military officers around Seoul at night. But he was forgiven, as a Priest, and decided that he needed to be a little bit more discreet in his hunting activities.  
  
Hawkeye Pierce found a little slip of paper under his pillow on his yearly cleaning day: a tiny scrap which had a date written on it. Frowning, he was unable to recall what nurse he'd set up an assignation with on that day, so he simply threw it out.  
  
But Bantelhopp's prediction was no less true, and on that very date the war ended. Father Mulcahy ended up winning the pool over what day the war would finally be over. Sometimes it's convenient not to be affected by the mists.  
  
Sometimes it's also convenient to have a store of vampiric blood on hand for when your ears nearly get blasted out of your head as you try to save the lives of some unlucky POWs. When he found his hearing going downhill, Mulcahy poured an entire cup of the liquid, most of what he had left, and downed it, sitting down in meditation for the night as the war raged around him. Through thorough concentration, he was able to manipulate the blood in his body to heal the damage that had been done, and even to sharpen, heighten, and strengthen his sense of hearing.  
  
B.J. had been very surprised by the recovery. That, in conjunction with the winning of the pool, finally convinced the doctor of the priest's contacts with higher powers.  
  
And the war was over. And they all went home. Little did they know what was waiting for them as they stepped off of their various airplanes was a world just a tad more full of darkness than the one they remembered leaving. 


End file.
